


Blood and Water

by theleafpile



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Alternative Marcus Pierce identity, Alternative season 3 storyline, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Archangels, BAMF Chloe Decker, Big Brother Amenadiel (Lucifer TV), Complete, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Blood, Or Is It?, Protective Chloe Decker, Up to and including 3x08, alternative reality, long fic, main non-show characters based on far too much research on the comics, taco tuesday, the devil spends quality time with his family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-10 21:03:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12920202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleafpile/pseuds/theleafpile
Summary: Lucifer knows he's being watched. Exactly who is doing the watching - and why - leaves him questioning reality.





	Blood and Water

**Author's Note:**

> Any errors are mine and, as always, I own nothing.  
> This story begins after 3x08.
> 
> Enjoy :)

_But when they came to Jesus and found that he was already dead, they did not break his legs. Instead, one of the soldiers pierced Jesus’ side with a spear, bringing a sudden flow of blood and water. John 19:33-34_

 

The woman dragged her finger along the edge of the piano like the rim of a wine glass, coaxing music forth. Lucifer watched her hungrily, the melody of her voice perfectly complementing his accompaniment. A rapturous crowd had gathered around them, draping themselves over midnight blue, plush booths, resting elbows amiably on high tables, leaning into one another and forward, trying to be closer to the music and its makers, like magic. 

The tune from his long fingers was light and playful as she sang, rivaling Nina Simone herself.

_I wish I knew how_  
_It would feel to be free_  
_I wish I could break_  
_All the chains holdin’ me_  
_I wish I could say_  
_All the things I should say_

Lucifer knew he was being watched. It was nothing new.

He did not know, on this night and for the last few evenings, precisely who was doing the watching. (Of course, that was nothing new, either.)

_Say ‘em loud, say ‘em clear_  
_For the whole ‘round world to hear_  
_I wish I could share_  
_All the love that’s in my heart_  
_Remove all the thoughts_  
_That keep us apart_

The only regret Lucifer had, as his guest poured music from her throat, was that he had no instruments beside the piano to play for her.

_I wish you could know_  
_What it means to be me_  
_Then you’d see and agree_  
_That every man should be free_

She took the seat beside him on the bench, swaying and bumping his shoulder warmly, pulling a sly smile from the Devil.

Not that she knew that’s who he actually was. For as often as he explained to humans that he was, in fact, _the_ Lucifer, they just as often wrote it off. 

His Father designed humans to want to believe in something, but since he was the one who gave them the chance to do otherwise, perhaps he deserved their rolled eyes and raised eyebrows.

_I wish I could give_  
_All I’m longin’ to give_  
_I wish I could live_  
_Like I’m longing to live_  
_I wish I could do_  
_All the things that I can do_  
_And though I’m way over due_  
_I’d be startin’ a new_

Lucifer danced his fingers along the keys for a few more lingering moments as she finished the lyrics. As the last notes faded, the woman smiled brightly at Lucifer, who returned the grin. A light chorus of firm applause burst from the early evening crowd. 

The woman held Lucifer’s gaze a moment longer than necessary, her smile melting into one of recognition. Lucifer faltered under the look, unsure what he was supposed to be recognizing. 

As the applause faded, Lucifer raised himself halfway up from the bench and lifted a hand, announcing they would be taking a short break. The crowd murmured appreciatively, returning to their earlier conversations and forgotten drinks, and he returned to the seat. A waitress dropped off a fresh glass.

The singer’s eyes stayed on his figure, waiting patiently.

“Oh, apologies, Emmelia,” he began, after taking a sip. He tilted the glass in offering. “Would you like me to call her back over?”

“I’m quite alright,” she assured, still carrying a small lift in the corners of her mouth. She studied his quizzical expression. “I’m wonderin’ a bit about how you’re doing, you Devil.”

“Me?” he asked. “You know me, darling. Wine –”

“Women, and song,” she finished. 

He lifted his eyebrows, appreciative. “See? Not that anyone could ever say ‘same old –”

“You see, it’s just that you never wanted to play that song before, is all I’m curious about,” she interrupted. 

“Someone recently reminded me how much I appreciate our dear Nina Simone,” he defended, shoulders tightening. “And it is a classic.”

“Yes,” Emmelia agreed, setting her dark hand lightly upon Lucifer’s, still resting on the keys. He relaxed marginally. The warmth of her skin seeped through as she gently patted the top of his hand. “Yes, it is.”

She took back her hand, and Lucifer lifted his, calling quickly for the waitress. “Yes, well. Seems someone may need to quit hitting the sauce. You sure you’re alright for another round?”

Emmelia held a knowing twinkle in her eye. “You know it, honey.”

The conversation turned and the singer ordered another drink, her earnest laugh carrying across the room. 

Mixed in the crowd, a man tucked a small notepad into his back pocket, pushed himself off the wall, and made his way to the exit.

 

Chloe wrapped her hands around the mug of steaming coffee, using it to hide the smile threatening to form on her face. Lucifer stood on the other side of the room, resting a hand against the elevator doors, chatting up a rookie officer who had no idea how he got pulled into the orbit of the other man.

Chloe watched, and – like any good detective – Chloe waited. Patience was key.

“Drinking on the job, Decker?” came a voice from over her shoulder, and Chloe didn’t need to look to see it was her unreadable Lieutenant.

“Not unless you count stale coffee as a potential murder weapon,” she joked instinctively, then straightened, quickly backtracking as her brain caught up to who she was speaking too. “Sir,” she added, setting down the mug awkwardly in the center of her desk.

He waved off the honorific, the movement catching Lucifer’s attention. The rookie took the moment to make his escape, darting around the corner before Lucifer could react. He twisted at the waist to see where the young man had gone, losing balance just as the elevator doors opened. 

A sharp yelp later and Lucifer fell backward, smacking squarely into Dan, who happened to be carrying a box of (probably very important) files.

Both went down in a flurry of white, bureaucratic snow.

Chloe caught a laugh in her throat, hitting her chest as though covering for a burp. 

Marcus just stood, shaking his head.

Together they (and half the precinct) watched as Lucifer indignantly uprighted himself, brushing off his jacket as Dan scrambled to grab errant, flittering paperwork from the air and as it slid across the floor. Looking down, Lucifer lifted an eyebrow and stuck a hand on his hip, tapping his fingers atop his hipbone and casually suggesting what Dan might also like to be doing while on his knees.

Even from across the room, Chloe could see the steam coming from her ex-husband’s very pink ears.

“They make quite a pair, don’t they,” said Marcus. 

Chloe did a double take. “Those two."

Lucifer laughed at Dan’s return remark, throwing his head back and tucking his hand in a pocket instead, definitely still not helping.

“Yes,” continued Marcus. “The men in your life seem equally useless.”

Chloe felt her cheeks blaze, unwilling to tell off her superior officer. Before she could politely defend them, Marcus opened his mouth, barking out a sharp “Lucifer!”

The object of their attentions smiled and strolled over, slipping momentarily on an wayward paper and pointing accusingly at it, telling Dan he really should clean up after himself. Dan’s shoulders heaved as he sighed, looking at the ceiling in disbelief.

“Hungry?” asked Marcus, as Lucifer sided up to the detective’s desk.

Lucifer eyed Chloe up and down. “I could eat,” he offered. 

“Lunch?” continued Marcus, unfazed.

Chloe glared daggers at her partner. 

“Why not?” 

“Half an hour,” Marcus answered, giving a curt nod and turning away. “I’m driving,” he called over his shoulder.

“Lovely,” said Lucifer, dropping into the seat beside his partner and crossing his legs. She, meanwhile, watched the Lieutenant enter his office and shut the door before whipping around, pinning Lucifer under her stare.

“What was that about?” she asked.

He twisted a paper around to get a better look. “Sustenance?” he answered.

She snapped her hand down on the page. “Lucifer.”

“Detective.”

She threw a cautionary look over her shoulder before leaning in, laying her hand on his forearm. He dropped his head, listening. 

Though gentle, Lucifer had the distinct impression that his arm was actually a vice grip. 

He swallowed.

“We don’t know anything about the new Lieutenant,” she began, in low, hushed tones. “So if you could tone down the, uh,” she paused, squeezing his arm and sending shocks up to his shoulder, “more _romantic_ aspects of our partnership,” she continued, and Lucifer straightened slightly at the wording, “and the whole, you know, _I’m Satan_ thing, that’d be great. Not everybody can put up with your particular brand of nuts.”

“Do you often think of my nuts, detective?” he teased, unable to help himself.

She ignored the comment, quickly removing her hand and darting a look over her shoulder. 

By the time she looked back, the rest of her warning had crashed head-long into his consciousness, and he stilled.

“Romantic?” he repeated.

 

The look on his face was not one she had expected. She’d figured he’d be sporting a cat-who-caught-the-canary-grin. Something smug.

But it did not appear. 

Instead, his brown eyes looked at her softly. The same dark eyes that often shone with the thin, brittle veneer of desire, that could break suspects with a look, gazed upon her now as gently as though they were beside a roaring fire and not under the harsh, florescent lights of a homicide department.

She would know. Lucifer had insisted on starting the fireplace when he came over last, complaining about the mild California winter. She humored him, watching him clean out the fireplace in her apartment, and only snickering a little at his indignation at his hands becoming covered in soot.

She held this gaze as long as she could to get the point across, before needing to take a much more needed breath than she’d like to admit. Because no matter what Lucifer was doing, even just looking at her from beside a desk, there was no doubting it.

He was intense.

Plus, it was getting harder not to stare. She had always covertly watched his movements, unconsciously categorizing reactions as to better tell his true intention from them, instead of relying on his words. On a good day, she could translate almost all of his Lucifer-ese, understand the emotion behind whatever nonsense he spouted at her. 

Not that it was getting any clearer the longer she knew the man. His words seemed only to become more confusing over time, as though in his quest to be understood he was losing himself deeper into a Babylonian labyrinth. 

It was rare - she knew - that he looked at her without also seeing how he looked in the picture, as though he were always aware of himself, though not in a self-conscious way. Just that he couldn’t see a room without also picturing himself in it. 

She wanted him to only eyes for her. Not the messy paperwork on her desk. Not the grumbled mumblings of her ex somewhere behind him, or the steam rising from her standard-issue mug. 

Just her.

And now, he did.

She lifted a shoulder in a shrug, unwilling to be more forthcoming. “Yeah,” she said, her eyes resting on his lips for the briefest of moments. “You know. Our… thing.”

She waited for a response, but Lucifer seemed intent on trying to read whatever she was trying to wipe off her face. 

“So where do you think you and the Lieutenant will go?” she asked instead, turning back to her paperwork. “You know they say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

“That’s one way, yes,” Lucifer answered absently. 

 

Marcus didn’t speak when he gestured for Lucifer to follow him out to the parking lot and into a borrowed cruiser. He didn’t say a word when Lucifer asked where they were going, nor answered any of Lucifer’s inquiries as to whether the new man in town had been to this or that restaurant, offering his own unprompted reviews of each place and the how and why he knew, sometimes intimately, the ownership or staff.

In fact, it wasn’t until they had walked into the Paddock Lounge bar and sat at the somewhat-sticky woodgrain counter that Marcus spoke. 

To order them both beers.

Then, he resumed his silence.

The low chatter of the other patrons and television filled the quiet amiably. Bars had been one of the most consistent establishments humanity had to offer. Stick in a rough barmaid and a couple of pretty waitresses in a room with warm woodwork and the shuffle of glasses and murmuring, slurred speech, with sunlight filtering through dusty, closed blinds, and you could be nearly anywhere in the world, at any period in time.

Lucifer knew: people never changed.

Lucifer shrugged at the beverage of choice when it arrived. “When in Rome,” he said, lifting the glass in a toast. That finally prompted an expression resembling happiness and ease in Marcus, who clinked their glasses together.

“Not much of a talker, Lieutenant?” Lucifer asked, taking a sip and poking a finger at a spiral in the woodwork.

“Not one of my skills, no,” he answered, his tone of his voice was light.

“So what skills do you possess?” Lucifer inquired, teasingly.

Marcus watched the bubbling foam clinging to the inside edge of his glass. “So you think you’re the Devil.”

Lucifer eyed him warily at the change in tone, but answered regardless. “I don’t think, but yes.”

“The first part I already knew.”

Lucifer couldn’t help but huff out a laugh, even if it was at his own expense. “Good, now that’s settled. Any other questions?”

Marcus took a swig. “So are you suffering from some sort of psychosis?”

Lucifer tilted his head, studying Marcus’ face. Unreadable. 

“Yes, well. Last time you brought up my identity you said I, what was it, ‘prance,’ and then called me an idiot.”

That left them both sitting in silence, though none observing them could say it was amiable. Two baskets of burgers and fries were set in front of them, but neither spared a look to the bartender who dropped them off.

“You were looking into the Sinnerman.”

“Still am.” _Not that it’s gone anywhere_ , thought Lucifer. Maze’s bounty hunting was a good cover, at least. He had been seamless in hiring her just after she turned in her latest scumbag find, allowing them both to tell the truth: Maze was looking for someone. 

It just happened to be someone Lucifer wanted found.

“Then you’re still an idiot.”

Marcus, content to drop the conversation, popped a fry in his mouth. Lucifer took the move as a peace offering, tucking into the food himself. After a few swallows, Lucifer took another swig of beer. It could almost be domestic. 

The beer was imported, obviously. But the company was not… unpleasant. Marcus certainly had a broad-shouldered thing going that left Lucifer’s gaze lingering. 

Marcus, for his part, was very good at hiding the fact that his eyes rarely left Lucifer’s hands.

Though it was for a very different reason.

“To answer your first question, however, yes,” he answered, taking another quick bite and speaking around the food as he chewed. “I am, indeed, the Devil himself. Satan. Prince of Darkness. Beelzebub. What have you.”

Marcus looked unimpressed. “No horns?”

Lucifer chuckled. 

“What?”

Lucifer’s smiled privately, tucking his Burberry-covered elbows onto the counter and lifting the burger for another bite. “Someone else asked me that, once. Feels like ages ago, now.”

Marcus nodded, more to himself. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Lucifer nearly choked, speaking around a mouthful of food. “That’s it? Nice to meet you, the bloody Adversary, glad to have you on the team?”

Marcus stood, pulling a few bills out of his wallet. Lucifer stood, shoving another bite into his mouth, before wiping his hands and doing the same. “Would you rather have me revoke your consultant position and remove you from aiding the police force?”

“Of course not,” he said, chewing rapidly. “I am –” 

Marcus held up a hand. “Listen. I’ve seen you get information out of people when no one else can. That’s a skill I want on my team. Just so long as you can keep your personal life – and your search for the Sinnerman, which I am still advising against – out of solving cases, then we’ll be good.”

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” Lucifer consoled, swallowing and tucking the thick stack of bills back into his suit jacket. “Never have I allowed any personal issues to interfere with my focus on a case.”

Marcus, for some reason, seriously doubted that.

 

Chloe stirred a bit more powdered creamer into her coffee, standing under the bright florescent lights of the precinct’s breakroom lights. Dan leaned against the outside of the doorway, nursing a cup himself. 

“They’re back,” he informed her, speaking out of the side of his mouth before pushing off and heading back toward his desk.

She covertly watched Lucifer trail behind the Lieutenant down the stairs. Marcus met her eyes in greeting, expressionless while Lucifer bounced lightly down the last few steps. As he passed the break area, her hand shot out and pulled him in.

“Detective!” he said jovially, smoothing down the arm of his suit jacket. “To what do I –”

“What did you guys talk about?”

A slow smile bloomed on his face. “Are you jealous, detective?”

“No. I’d just like to know if I’ll have a job in the morning.”

“And why wouldn’t you?” he asked, sidestepping out of the way as another detective entered the small space. Chloe shook her head and dragged him out, beckoning him toward the forensics lab. She shut the door behind them, leaving them alone in the empty room. 

“Oh, I don’t know, _Casanova_ ,” she started, “maybe because you sleep with everything with two legs and have a habit of coloring outside the lines. Like, way out. Like you’re using a different coloring book altogether.”

Lucifer bristled. “Well, not _everything_ with two legs." Chloe resisted rolling her eyes. “Does that make you my Henriette?”

“Lucifer.”

“There was nothing to chat about!” he defended. “He simply wanted assurances.”

“About?”

Lucifer lifted a shoulder, eyes innocent. “About the fact that my Devilish nature –”

Chloe threw up her hands, pacing past him. 

“– would not affect the work we do."

She paused with her back to him, her hands stuck on her hips. She took in his words, staring out the glass toward the rest of the precinct.

“Satisfied?” he asked. 

A moment passed with Lucifer watching her, curious at her silence.

“I have worked so hard to get to here,” she said, quietly. 

He spoke to her reflection. “I know.”

Her shoulders softened at that. 

“Frankly, it’s a little absurd, how hard you work. I mean, look at Daniel! Same career choice, much less likely to put in the hours that you do. As much as it pains me to say it, it seems your ex has much more of a grip on the whole work/life separation aspect of existence. Come to think of it,” he continued, “when was the last time your ex solved a case? Because as far as I know, only those detectives _without_ lives are any good at their jobs.” He muttered to himself, thinking out loud. "Is it because you're solving murders, and thus not having a _life_ helps you -"

She turned, weary. “Not you, too. And it didn’t used to be like that. Dan used to pull a lot of long nights.”

Lucifer couldn’t help it: his eyes drifted down her slender figure at the mention of long nights. “Is that the reason he’s your ex, then? Not warming your bed often enough?”

She narrowed her eyes at her partner. “You… are asking why Dan and I broke up. For real.”

Lucifer shifted uncomfortably, but didn’t correct her.

“Him being gone was a lot of it,” she admitted. 

“Shame,” said Lucifer, with a tight smile.

“What is?”

“Not how I would choose to spend my long nights. Were they with you.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Chloe replied lightly.

“Seems the ex’s in your life are prone to making similar mistakes. Though loathe I am to admit that Daniel and I share anything more in common than a Y chromosome.” His smile faded into curiosity. “Though I’m not sure I have one. May just be a human trait.”

The last few words seemed to fall from his mouth, bouncing lightly as they hit the pale linoleum. 

Chloe gently shook her head. “You’re not my ex,” she corrected.

Lucifer mentally reviewed the last few moments. “No, of course not,” he backtracked. 

“I mean, things haven’t really been the same,” Chloe said, more to herself, “since you – since we haven’t, really…”

Lucifer stared into the window beyond her, looking for any escape. Ella came into view, jauntily making her way toward the office, and Lucifer held up a hand in obvious greeting, relieved. Chloe snapped her mouth shut. 

It was all for the best. She really didn’t want to end that sentence, anyway.

Because maybe he was an ex. An ex- _something_.

Whatever had happened between them that caused him to leave seemed to be resolving... until he left again. On her birthday.

But the present more than made up for it.

And the necklace was nice, too.

 

Marcus clicked on a desk lamp. The small, bright light shocked away the shadows, illuminating the file he slid into place beneath it. Behind him, the darkness of his large, empty apartment glared back at him, hard. Brand-new appliances sat shiny and unused. A few duffel bags dotted the space against the wall, clustered beside a travel rack for hanging suits. Had anyone walked in, they might assume the apartment’s tenant was getting ready to move in, or perhaps these were the last few items he needed to move out.

They would not guess its occupant had not even bothered purchasing a real mattress for God knows how long, unable to stay in one place for more than a handful of years.

Sometimes, not even that.

Marcus was silent as he perused the file Detective Espinoza had put together on the enigmatic nightclub owner, seeing if any new information popped out at him.

He flipped over a page, thumbing at a copy of Lucifer’s passport. A note had been hastily scribbled beside the date of birth, noting a different day and month, and a question mark for the year.

A day that would be falling at the end of the week.

Marcus shut the file, leaning back in his chair. The darkness behind him slid at the edges of the circle of light, like a cat rubbing itself. He fluffed his hair, twisting his fingers together at the back of his head. The hairs on the back of his neck raised in anticipation.

If he had learned anything in his life, it was patience.

 

The end of the week came sooner than expected. It was nearing nine in the evening when Chloe and Lucifer dropped back into the precinct, the detective making a beeline for her desk and rummaging with a few notes. Marcus watched from his mostly-darkened office as Lucifer hung back, eyeing the vending machine longingly and shaking his head, clearing away unwanted thoughts.

Chloe returned, gesturing wearily toward her desk and then up at the stairs. Lucifer wavered, then relented. Marcus watched her shoulders droop slightly as he bounded up the steps, lifting a hand in goodbye. She lifted hers, watching for a moment before turning back to her desk.

Before she could get comfortable, Marcus appeared at her side. She jolted in her seat. 

“God, you scared me,” she breathed, calming herself.

“You should go with him,” Marcus stated, lifting a chin to the stairs.

“What? Why?”

He looked down his nose at her. “It’s his birthday, isn’t it?”

She pursed her lips, lifting her gaze upward in thought. “Is it?” 

He waited as she considered it. 

“I guess it was about this time last year. But he didn’t say anything about it.”

“Not like it changes,” Marcus suggested. “Unless it’s not his real birthday.”

“Why wouldn’t it be his real birthday?”

His expression, having a serious “c’mon, detective” look, also held an undercurrent of pity.

Swiftly, she brushed together some loose papers into a neater pile, standing. “No, no I think he would have said something. Or use it as an excuse to throw a party. Not that he’s ever needed one.”

“That does seem to be in his job description.”

“Throwing a party?”

“Not needing an excuse to do something."

She pulled herself tighter together, uncomfortable. 

He backtracked. “But you should go, regardless. Go home. Get some sleep.”

She warily stepped around him, grabbing her jacket off the back of the chair. “You’re sure?”

He gestured to the empty precinct. “You see anybody else working late? No need to be a martyr, Decker.”

"You are," she said.

He resisted looking at the floor, choosing instead to meet her gaze head-on. "True," he admitted sadly. "But you still have a life. And a daughter."

She smiled, genuinely, at the mention and backed away, awkwardly saluting. “See you Monday, then." 

“Monday,” he repeated. 

It couldn’t come fast enough.

This might be all over by then.

_Finally._

 

Marcus detected no change in the atmosphere of Lux, even as the night swung around the clock, the hours weaning into the early morning. No one had wished Lucifer a happy birthday, and the man had not announced for all to know that this day – _not unlike like all other days_ , thought Marcus glumly – was to be all about him.

As he nursed a scotch and soda, seated at a corner booth, Marcus came to the conclusion that either Lucifer (and everyone around him) had either collectively forgotten it was his birthday, or that it wasn’t his birthday at all. 

Just another Friday night, like any that had come before it.

Lucifer sat at the piano, eyeing the bounty of a brunette as she leaned over its lid, a licentious grin on his face. 

Marcus huffed out a quiet laugh. Either Lucifer had the best poker face in the Universe, or he didn’t give a damn about what day it was.

Lucifer clinked his glass with the woman’s, gesturing toward the stairs. She happily obliged.

Marcus’ smile faded. He threw back the rest of his drink, steeling himself for what was to come.

He shifted against the back of the booth, taking solace in the feeling of the warmed, worn leather sheath against the skin of his lower back.

And the blade, beneath.

 

The next morning, Lucifer stretched himself awake, sliding his bare feet onto the cool marble floors. He chanced a look over his shoulder. 

The other side of the bed was empty. He should have expected that. He had taken none of his guests to bed with him last night.

(The last woman and he had barely left the hot tub all evening, and she, unfortunately, had to leave for somewhere or other before the night was over.)

Still, it was a little jarring. He had fully expected to awaken to a warm body beside his own, but more and more he had found himself grasping sheets instead of skin when he awoke.

The hot tub had been a popular spot the last few nights. And the shower. The bar. The couch. Even the floor, the woman getting off on the feeling of being a couple of rowdy teenagers.

But he had taken none to bed. Not since that night he came home, when he found the detective – 

Lucifer shook his head, rubbing the new growth of stubble along his face. The sheet slid off as he stood, outstretching his arms and wings.

As they brushed the walls, he tucked them closer to get a better look, straightening out a few misbehaving feathers. 

A short chuckle came from the living area, and Lucifer rolled his eyes.

“What?” he argued. “You try holding them away all the time. They get stiff.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” Amenadiel reminded him, comfortably sunk into one of Lucifer’s chair cushions as though _he_ owned the place, closing a book on his lap.

Lucifer tucked them back out of sight. “Can I help you, brother?” he asked, padding jauntily down the stairs with an eye to the bar. “Or are you simply here to make sure I begin my day with a healthy breakfast of annoying sibling? With a side of brotherly advice, perhaps?”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“You need to watch more television.” 

Amenadiel grimaced. “I’ve seen enough.” 

Lucifer began heading back up the steps. 

“Brother,” Amenadiel called out. 

Lucifer whirled around, the fabric of his boxers fluttering. Only Lucifer could radiant annoyance in such a state. 

The angel seemed to think better of it. “Never mind.” 

Lucifer snorted in disbelief, then turned back around.

Amenadiel waited until the shower began to run. “Happy Re-Birthday,” he told the empty penthouse, remembering the craziness at Lux that followed Lucifer’s burning of his wings. 

Perhaps some memories were better left buried.

 

When detectives put together a timeline later, it looked something like this:

Saturday:  
0930 wakeup  
1030 breakfast at Julios (3 blocks south)  
1200 Corvette tune up at dealership  
1345 return to penthouse

They were not certain what may have transpired at Lucifer’s home that afternoon. His phone records were currently being pulled. When interviewed, the wait staff (and cooks, and the owner) at Julio’s only had praise for Lucifer. He was a generous tipper.

(And generous in other ways, which had the waitresses giggling to one another, whispering in Spanish).

No enemies there.

At precisely six o’clock Saturday evening, Lucifer appeared healthy and whole at Chloe and Maze’s apartment. 

 

Chloe didn’t bother going around the kitchen counter to answer the door when Lucifer knocked and Lucifer didn’t bother waiting, swinging open the door.

“That was locked,” she said, her back turned. Maze was seated at the counter, sipping a glass of wine and watching Chloe chop a couple of tomatoes to throw into a simmering pot of marinara sauce. 

“Was it?” he cheekily responded, his words cut off as he was accosted by the child, smacking into him with a hug.

“You could help, you know,” Chloe eyed her roommate, who took another sip. 

“Her knife skills are unsurpassed,” Lucifer added, successfully unpeeling the girl from his hip. 

Maze was lifting herself from the seat as Chloe spoke. “On second thought, you know, you’re probably being the most helpful just by sitting right there. There,” Chloe said again, pointing with the knife toward the seat. “Right there.” 

Maze slowly lowered herself. She and Lucifer exchanged a shrug. He tucked in beside the detective, taking in the smells and uncovering a steaming pot as Trixie slid into the seat beside the demon, letting the tips of her sneakers tap lightly against the wall.

Lucifer began espousing some light criticisms of the cooking, offering his own unsolicited advice while Chloe ducked behind his back, making a face at her daughter. Maze snorted into her glass. 

Lucifer sensed the teasing. “Now I’ll have you know,” he started, and Maze groaned, flopping dramatically back in the chair, prompting a giggle from the little girl beside her.

“Not the _pizza al taglio_ story again,” she complained. 

Trixie sparked up at the word. “Pizza?” she asked.

“Yes, pizza _al taglio_ –”

Maze smacked her hand on the table, pointing a finger accusingly at the Devil. “You did _not_ invent pizza by the slice, Lucifer,” she interrupted.

Chloe’s gaze darted between the two. “This is an awfully heated subject for you two,” she remarked, corners of her mouth downturning in disbelief.

“It’s because she thinks _she_ invented it,” he started, turning and backing away as Maze rose from her seat. Trixie giggled again as the demon lunged, Lucifer darting around the side of the counter as she grabbed the knife. “Obviously Julius was much more interested in me than you,” he continued, jumping back when Maze took a swipe at him, following him into the living room. “And that’s why he wanted to have something quick and transportable when we were done!”

“When _we_ were done,” Maze countered, following Lucifer slowly around the room like a large, angry cat. He darted into her room, shutting the door. She tried the handle. Locked. 

Chloe turned back to the cooking, trying to gather her daughter’s attention away from the chaos.

Not that it worked. Trixie beamed, watching as Maze maneuvered step back, intending to kick in the door handle.

“Maze,” Chloe scolded, her roommate hopping in mid-step, one foot already raised. “Come help me.” 

“Yeah, come help us!” joined Trixie, bouncing in her seat. 

Maze shot one last, scathing look toward the door, certain that Lucifer could see it, and returned to the kitchen. 

Lucifer, sensing freedom, opened the door a crack. Upon seeing the demon seated, he threw it open, and strolled right back to the detective’s side, straightening his jacket as he did so. 

Chloe just shook her head, stirring the sauce.

 

After dinner, Maze strolled out the front, throwing on a jacket and telling Decker not to wait up for her. Chloe stuck the dishes in the dishwasher while Lucifer leaned a hit against the counter, halfway watching over his shoulder whatever Trixie had on the television while pretending to be helpful.

Chloe shut the dishwasher. “Babe,” she called out, entering Lucifer’s space as she folded herself down onto the counter. Trixie popped her head over the couch. “Time to brush your teeth,” she said.

Trixie flopped back on the couch, and Chloe counted to five before opening her mouth again, but by then the child had grumbled herself off the seat.

She smiled at her daughter, then lifted upright, brushing her shoulder up against the warm body beside her.

The _very_ warm, solid body.

He stilled.

She let her hand rest on the counter beside him, looking up shyly.

For a fraction of a moment, the soft expression surfaced. Her heart fluttered at its appearance.

It was quickly covered – and, even though she was watching, Chloe had no idea how he shifted so seamlessly from the truth to… well, not a lie, but…

A bluff, perhaps.

His warmth radiated onto the bare skin of her arm. She bumped a hip into the edge of the counter and inching, perhaps, just a little closer to its source. Completely unconsciously, of course.

“So,” she started, her lips pursing as she thought of something to say. A joke, perhaps, at his expense. Something about the show he definitely wasn’t also watching, or hearkening back to the fact that he could not _possibly_ take credit for inventing sliced pizza. It’d be like inventing sliced bread. Which of course wasn’t something even the so-called _Devil_ – 

He dipped his head, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against hers. He lifted a hand, softly caressing her jaw with his thumb before softly, chastely, pressing his lips against her own.

There was no hurry. No desperation. It didn't lay against her as a prelude to something else, something to be rushed to move along to bigger and better things.

It was almost... unsure. Not quite a test, to see if it was alright - but more like...

Like he had never kissed anyone like it, before, and didn't quite know how.

Hers parted of their own accord, gently pushing into him, deepening the kiss. He pushed lightly against her, confidence growing. The faintest taste of the after-dinner drink he insisted upon lingered, warm and smooth. She laid her hand atop his own, her fingers brushing over the skin.

He pulled away suddenly, looking at their hands.

Someone else had just done that. Someone who smiled at him knowingly, seeing something that he could not.

_What was it he could not see?_

The front door burst open, followed by a loud and distinctly unapologetic “Sorry!” as Maze entered, not bothering to shut it behind her. She ducked into her room, coming out with a small, black bag. “Forgot my supplies,” she answered their unasked questions, lifting a scarred eyebrow at their proximity. 

Chloe cleared her throat, taking a stuttering step backward.

Maze slammed the door shut behind her – though she always did that – rattling the dishes left in the sink.

Lucifer still seemed to be staring at his hand. 

“Right,” he said, shattering it. “I’ll –” he started, taking in a deep inhale and pushing himself around toward the door. “Right.”

The door opened and shut again, swallowing Lucifer into the night. Chloe rested her elbows on the counter, rubbing her hands together, suddenly cold.

 

The security footage from outside Lux showed Lucifer returning to and entering the building a little before 8:00pm, and not leaving again until Sunday evening at approximately the same time.

 

Chloe rewound the tape, watching Lucifer exit his car and push through the doors toward the elevator. 

“He looks sad,” she said aloud, to no one in particular. 

At that point, no one was listening, anyway. Her dry eyes were feeling as fuzzy as the dust that collected on television screens, glued there with static. 

That’s all Lucifer was, on the screen. Lots of little dots of varying shades of gray, electrical light and movements and filaments. It was easier, this way. This way, he wasn’t – 

He was still –

She fast forwarded the tape to the next evening, watching a few of the building’s other residents and employees flitting by on the screen, their faces and figures blurred by time. 

Lucifer stepped out of the elevator, flipping his keyring around his finger. 

“Bored,” she noted.

The camera, on its half-circle route, ended up following Lucifer as he walked toward his car. His stride was light and confident. Not brisk. Not excited, like he was going out to meet someone. Just… leaving.

“Normal,” she said.

What ended up happening that evening could not have been further from normal.

Unless you were a homicide detective. Then, this was pretty par for the course.

Chloe leaned back in the seat, not having bothered to turn on the lights in the forensics lab as the lights around her dimmed. 

He had everything on him. 

Not a robbery gone wrong. The stack of cash in his chest pocket was still there. The backup stash in his back pocket. The ring. His shoes. 

Hell, even his pocket square was still in place.

The last number that had called him had come from a burner, bought in a convenience store not far from the scene.

Untraceable. 

The store had been recently updating their security system, leaving a fifteen hour window – a secret, fifteen hour window – in which the surveillance system was down. 

The only employee who knew of the blackout – the owner – was at his son’s junior league hockey game at the estimated time of the purchase.

It was a dead end. 

 

Lucifer killed the engine, pausing for a moment to take in the scene. 

The beach. Not far from where he had come into the world, finally abandoning Hell after eons trapped, unable to disentangle himself from its web for longer than a few weeks at a time. 

Hell always pulled him back, like an infernal current in the cosmic ocean and he, swirling and stuck in it. 

(He had never considered, perhaps, that he had not escaped Hell, after all.) 

(Maybe Hell had let him go.)

Maybe.

A figure was standing tall just ahead, looking out onto the ocean. His broad back and shoulders were held rigidly, hands clasped behind his back in a military bearing. 

Lucifer looked: no one else in sight. The Santa Monica pier stood, shining like a beacon, in the distance, its lights dancing atop the churning water. It was too late and too cold and out here was too dark for anyone to wander off for a snog or a shag.

Lucifer hunched himself slightly over at a cold burst of wind from over the ocean, leaving a strong taste of salt in his mouth. 

He reached the figure, looking into his face curiously, then out toward whatever it was he was looking at.

“Lieutenant –” he began.

The word was choked off.

In a fluid, practiced motion, Marcus unsheathed the knife at his back, burying it into Lucifer’s left side. He angled it upward, slicing through flesh with an easy movement.

Lucifer exhaled as his lung deflated, pulling his gaze down toward the blade. 

He didn’t understand.

He guessed he should probably be used to the feeling by now.

“That’s…” he started, his voice shaking as his body began to. “Rude,” he coughed. With a hand steady on his back, Marcus lowered the other man, looking up around him as he did so.

Marcus smoothly pulled the long, steel blade out, tucking it back out of sight.

Blood spurted from Lucifer’s mouth as he opened it to speak, holding a hand weakly over the wound. Marcus backed away, leaning forward at the waist and studying the wound as one might an art piece. “Huh,” he said, discouraged. “No water.”

“Water?” Lucifer managed, pulling his hand away enough to see it was now completely coated in dark, nearly black, blood. 

“Blood and water,” Marcus explained, as though it were the easiest thing in the world. “Humanity and divinity.”

At the word, Lucifer hunched over, recalling the reference and coughing out a bloody laugh. “Divinity?” he asked. He could feel the hot blood as it flowed over his chin, compared to the hard, cold wind. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to lift a knee, then the other, trembling into standing. “You want divinity?”

Marcus took another step back, eyeing him with something akin to sympathy.

With more effort than he’d like, Lucifer unfurled his wings. He held them taunt and aloft, even as they trembled.

Marcus’ expression fell into awe.

“Finally,” he whispered.

The wings disappeared as Lucifer fell to his knees, unwilling to be tainted by whatever this humanity was.

After all, there is nothing more human than the knowledge that you were about to die.

 

Chloe rinsed under the shower, letting the water wash away the day. 

Her heart began to race. She listened for any sound that may have escaped her conscious notice, any displacement in the normal groaning of a building settling. 

Hearing nothing, she set her warm hands flat against the tile, dipping her head under the stream. She willed her heart to slow, turning her face slowly from side to side. She breathed in and out, concentrating on the feeling of the water sliding over her skin, her hair draping over her shoulders.

She didn’t how long she stayed like that, waiting for the tight sensation in her chest to abate.

The fear released her long enough for her to dry off and get into bed. She laid down, pulling the comforter to her chin and double checking her phone before leaving it, face down, on her bedside table.

After a few moments, she upturned it again, squinting in the bright light.

She even pulled up the contacts list, tapping on Lucifer’s name. Her contact picture for him came up. It captured a rare moment, Lucifer seated beside her desk, face turned down to study a file in his lap. His hand had upturned a page, his expression concentrated.

She downturned the phone again, squeezing her eyes shut in an attempt to fall asleep.

 

Lucifer pressed down weakly against the wound at his stomach, his palm slipping against the smooth, torn fabric and skin beneath. The taste of salt from the ocean mixed with the sharp, metallic tang in his mouth. The cold water, once receded, had crawled up to him, clawing at his ankles, soaking through his trousers, flirting with the back of his belt. 

The ocean breeze shook up a bit of sand, leaving a fine coat over the side of his face, sticking to where involuntary tears fell.

He let his hands fall away, surprised to feel the pool of blood at his side. He dipped his fingers into the sand, and frowned. He should be able to feel more, but his fingers had gone numb.

A passing thought brushed over his mind.

He had not called for his Father... because there was no one worth the price.

No one worth saving.

The sky had finally begun to lighten. The detective would be waking up, soon. Perhaps her little hellspawn had already awoken her, demanding sustenance. 

He smiled at the thought of the detective – 

 

of _Chloe_ – 

 

The 9-1-1 operator was more competent than most. 

Marcus tuned into the scanner at home, waiting. The call came in from a concerned jogger, roughly twelve hours after he had left the scene. 

Then, one name jumped out at him as he calmly slipped on his shoes, reaching for the dial to shut it off. 

St. Claire’s. 

A hospital. 

Marcus stopped, one foot halfway into a shoe.

Lucifer survived.

He took in a breath, thinking. It certainly hadn’t been the first time something like this had happened.

He shut off the scanner, shoved on his shoe, and was gone.

 

The precinct was buzzing with the usual activity when he descended the steps. Chloe was seated at her desk, nursing a takeout cup of coffee and staring vaguely somewhere ahead of her. Dan passed as he reached the last step.

Perfect.

“Espinoza,” Marcus said, hushed as to not gather attention. Dan stopped, backtracking a few steps.

“Yes, Lieutenant?” he asked, eager to be helpful. 

Marcus swallowed, looking around the precinct. A few curious onlookers glanced over, offering good mornings and a few, additional glad-your-backs from those he had not yet seen.

“I’m about to announce a case. I’m assigning you as the lead detective on it. I don’t want to hear any blowback about it. Understood?”

Dan’s smile grew, flattered. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you need.”

“Okay, listen up!” Marcus announced, gathering the room’s attention. He waited as activity stopped, gathering himself. 

It had to be presented just right.

“Our job is not without risks. We knew that going in. We’ve been trained from the beginning to mitigate and control what we can. But sometimes things are out of our control.”

Chloe stood, coming around the side of her desk. She looked toward Dan, who stood beside the Lieutenant. He hadn’t made a speech when he returned to work from the hospital. 

“I’ve just received word one of our own has been grievously injured.” He paused, waiting as a few of the listeners collected themselves. “Unfortunately, we can’t say it was in the line of duty, but you all know that once you play on our team, there are those who think you’re on the wrong one.”

He stepped down off the last step, as though to signal the end of the announcement, catching everyone off guard when he finished. 

“The consultant Lucifer Morningstar was attacked last night. He’s been brought to St. Claire’s in critical condition. I trust Detective Espinoza will discover all the facts about his case. Please assist him in any way you can.” He paused, meeting the eyes of a few. 

Not Chloe’s.

“Okay. That’s it.” Marcus bypassed the slack-jawed onlookers and made his way toward his office in the back. 

Somewhere to the left, a pencil holder clattered on the floor, scattering office supplies. 

 

Lucifer awoke in his penthouse – which was to be expected – in bed – also expected – and naked – _also_ expected – nursing the mother of all hangovers.

Which was decidedly unexpected.

He groaned, pulling himself upright and lifting a hand to rub his forehead. Pressing the heel of his palm against his temple, Lucifer looked down into the living area, surprised to see it immaculate, given his current state. 

He did notice the horrendous painting of the mermaid was gone, as was the safe he had installed a few short weeks ago. The piano was facing the elevator, but otherwise all looked the same.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Lucifer willed himself to stand. Halfway up, the last scene he could remember flashed in his mind. 

Blood and water.

He ran his fingers over his ribs, tucking his chin to get a better look. Nothing out of the usual. A stumble to the bathroom and its mirror displayed the same. Lucifer splashed a bit of warm water on his face, stretching out his aching fingers. It was as though he’d been clutching something in them for ages, the palm red and indented with his fingernails.

He dressed, foregoing the jacket – the temperature was pleasant (he wouldn’t hesitate to say perfect) – and walked onto the balcony.

No breeze ruffled his hair, bringing up no scent of smog or evidence of humanity from below. 

Or sound.

He looked over the edge. The city was quiet. Peaceful.

Still.

The orange light, struggling through the polluted atmosphere, glared sharply off glittering windows, coming from everywhere and nowhere. The light struck his eyes painfully, and he squinted at a building.

Lucifer tugged his cigarette case from a pocket and lit one up, the smoke curling languidly around his face. He leaned on the railing, flicking off a bit of ash off the edge. Slowly, it drifted down, propelled down only by its own miniscule weight.

“Bloody Hell,” he murmured, watching it fall.

A thought passed through his mind, fast and slick as a melting sheet of ice. He lifted his eyes to the clouded, burnt sky.

“Or,” he said, staring, “maybe not.”

 

Dan hadn’t bothered to ask where Chloe was going. Marcus hadn’t bothered to stop her, instead saying that she could take of any leave paperwork when she got back. 

Dan didn’t blame her. He’d rather be there, but then, if he were, he’d rather be back at the precinct, helping. He knew that it must be bad, if she were electing to be there instead of pushing to work his case.

He shoved at a couple papers on his desk. With a man like Lucifer, there was no good place to start. There simply was no starting point. His life was a series of shady deals and tenuous relationships with every type of depraved human being Los Angeles – and, he assumed, beyond – had to offer. How could he find enemies, when every deal was a series of crossed wires leading to the same bomb? Lucifer did what he liked, when he liked, unwilling to see consequences even when they stared him in the face – Hell, he enjoyed the chaos it brought, had even wanted to start a gang war just to see what it was like – 

There would be no A to B line. No clear series of events leading to Lucifer’s mur–

His – 

Dan shot out of his seat, needing to be upright, to be moving, to be doing – something. Anything.

He grabbed his keys and, with a wave toward the general direction of the Lieutenant’s office, left.

 

Marcus watched the detective until he was out of sight, seated at his desk. Another officer was speaking, standing in front of his desk as though the Lieutenant was his judge, jury, and executioner.

Marcus noticed, dragging his attention back toward whatever the other man was saying. 

The detective swallowed.

Marcus smiled.

 

The ocean had claimed whatever evidence had been left behind after police processing, leaving Dan standing at the edge of the water, looking out. He had to think of something, fast – before whoever did this disappeared, never to be found. It’d been known to happen.

He wouldn’t let it.

Not because Lucifer was his friend. The verdict was still out on that one. Or because he was his ex-wife’s partner – in however many ways he didn’t care to think about.

He would because he was a damn good detective, no matter what anyone said. He’d done some shady-ass shit in the past, but covering up a crime took just as much, if not more, knowledge and skill than uncovering one. 

There had to be someone who knew more about Lucifer’s enemies than he did.

Dan let out a laugh, shaking his head at his own stupidity before reaching into his pocket and grabbing his phone, dialing one number he’d never wanted to know.

 

By the time Chloe reached the hospital, Lucifer had been moved to a room at the end of a corridor, some ways down from a nurses’ station. 

Chloe didn’t hate hospitals, of course. They’d saved her life more often than she should have ever needed. The staff was always competent, and she trusted them. 

But that didn’t mean she had to like being in one. They made her hyper-focus, tuned into every little detail as though her mind was intent on memorizing every dot in the spongey linoleum. She followed the signs and went up an elevator, completely, hopelessly aware of her breathing. 

She heard Maze before even rounding the next corner, and she’d never been so relieved in her life. 

Because Maze was mad.

And when Maze was mad about something, the world was still spinning the right way.

“You can’t keep him here. He’s got rights,” she was arguing.

Chloe turned the corner to find Maze ready to lunge at a nurse, leaning over the counter at the station with two shifting-eyed security guards behind her. Chloe confidently strolled forward, flashing her badge to the uniforms. They straightened.

“What’s going on?” Chloe asked. Maze barely acknowledged the other woman, still staring at the nurse.

If Chloe didn’t know better, she could’ve sworn Maze growled.

“Maze,” Chloe said softly, offering an apologetic look to the haggard nurse, who seemed relieved that the woman was about to be someone else’s problem.

“They won’t release him,” Maze began to explain as she let Chloe lead her away. 

A security guard followed, stepping in. “He’s unconscious, ma’am,” he explained.

Chloe nodded curtly in thanks. “Where is he?” she asked her.

Maze lifted her chin toward the room at the end of the hall, squaring her jaw. Chloe glanced down the way. 

A man had pulled up a chair next to the closed door. Or, at least, Chloe assumed it was a man. From this distance, he could just as well have been a pile of rags in various states of disrepair. Part of her wondered why the guards hadn’t moved him, but wrote it off as them prioritizing her roommate, instead. 

“Ma’am,” said the guard, gaining her attention. He cleared his throat, taking a quick look over his shoulder as he stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I’m no doctor, but from what I’ve overheard, Mr. Morningstar’s in pretty bad shape.” 

With that, Maze freed herself from Chloe’s grasp, marching back toward Lucifer’s door. Chloe watched over the guard’s shoulder as Maze kicked at the shifting pile of rags, taking out any residual anger, before entering the room and slamming the door behind her.

Chloe exhaled, not realizing she had been holding her breath.

“He’s not waking up,” the guard continued. “There’s no reason for him not to, I guess, from what I’ve heard –” 

“Why are you telling me this?” Chloe interrupted, harsher than she intended. “What’s your involvement?”

“Mr. Morningstar’s a good guy,” he said, unfazed. He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the other guard. “Helped me and Rick out, once upon a time. Just don’t like to see my buddies in here, is all.”

Chloe willed herself to relax. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“Anything I can do to help,” he said. “Just trying to keep the peace,” he joked. 

With that, the other guard followed him around the corner, and they were gone. She stared at the space they left behind, feeling the eyes of the few nurses.

With every step toward the room, the fabric of reality pressed itself harder against her, as though the air itself were stiffening. She eyed the man – definitely a lump of a man, a stub of a cigar long burnt out sitting, untouched, between his pale and cracked lips – and put her hand on the doorknob.

Something inside her said he wasn’t going to be the only stranger appearing for Lucifer’s vigil. 

 

Lucifer didn’t know how long it’d been. 

The sun never changed its position in the sky, continuously following him, glinting off every shining surface and catching directly into his eyes. He had tried the Corvette, to no avail. Damn car wouldn’t even turn over.

None of the cars would.

He wandered the empty streets of L.A., chain smoking.

He was used to wandering. He’d spend ages walking Hell’s corridors, memorizing every turn and crack until it shifted around him, changing, moving, growing. And though he had a home there – a very nice one, given the circumstances (with an elaborate throne room, though he rarely had visitors) – each time he came to Earth, no matter for how long he would be staying, the first thing he always did was purchase a home.

Drove Maze nuts, but she learned to let it go.

Lucifer didn’t wander the Earth. He’d go different places, but usually he picked a city and stayed put with his demon protector for a couple weeks, exhausting the party circuit and all the glories its little slice of humanity had to offer.

 

The ocean water was still. Gentle, lapping waves hesitantly kissed the shoreline. He looked further out, toward the dark horizon. 

No stars. 

Shrugging out of his clothes, he left them in a pile on the sand and walked into the chilly water until he was swimming. 

No current pulled him further out to sea.

He wasn’t sure how far out he made it before he awoke in his penthouse, naked, alone, and spouting a massive headache.

He stumbled to his feet, kicking at anything he could find. Which happened to be the sheet, hiding the bedframe. He let out a frustrated groan as he stubbed his toe, hoping on one foot as the pain eased.

“Bloody Groundhog’s Day, is it?” he yelled.

No one responded.

 

“Gaudium,” coughed the stranger, at Chloe’s side. 

She had been steadying herself to enter the room, trying to memorize that last, extra half-second of normalcy, of not seeing Lucifer in an all-too familiar state for her. She’d known how it felt to be a human pincushion, and if Lucifer wasn’t waking – 

“Bless you?” she answered cautiously. 

The man cleared his throat, pushing the cigar to the corner of his crusted mouth. “Please don’t,” he answered, his voice as gruff as his several days-worth of stubble. He made to stand, but Chloe shifting her weight away changed his mind. He rested back down. “Gaudium,” he repeated, more clearly. “Of the Seventeeth Order. I’m Lucifer’s –”

The door handle ripped from Chloe’s hand. Maze was suddenly right in front of her, seething. 

“Pet,” finished Maze. 

He grumbled something under his breath. 

“You were Lucifer’s pet,” she corrected. 

“Maze,” Chloe chided, smiling politely at the mumbling pile of rags. “I’m sure –”

Her voice gave out as she caught sight of Lucifer. He laid in a hospital bed, the pale, checkered gown hanging loosely around his shoulders, an I.V. steadily dripping beside him. His eyes were closed, and he seemed utterly oblivious to the tube coming out of mouth. Which was probably for the best. The sharp beep of far too many machines shocked the room with each artificial rise and fall of his chest. 

Maze pushed her further out, closing the door surreptitiously behind her. 

“The Lilim’s not letting anybody in the room,” Gaudium informed. She shot him a look that spoke of daggers. “She’s a little over enthusiastic. Like a watchdog Yorkie.”

Maze lunged. Chloe reacted on instinct, throwing out her arms to hold her back. The movement shocked her back into the present moment. Maze snapped at the man in a language Chloe didn’t understand, her words hard, guttural, and biting. 

Gaudium chuckled, his shoulders shaking under the clothing almost comically, which only served to irate Maze more. He pulled the cigar away, studying the moist and bitten end before replacing it in his mouth. Chloe caught sight of the edge of his face, and his gray skin. 

Chloe struggled to pull Maze away and back toward the nurses’ station. She pushed her toward the elevators, pulling up her old, beat-cop Chloe self as she lifted a hand, pointing toward the doors. 

“Go cool off,” she ordered. 

Several nurses swiveled their heads. 

Maze looked past her roommate, gritting her teeth. “You protect him,” she said.

Chloe understood. “You know that I will do all that I can –”

Her softness was the demon’s undoing. Her gaze snapped back to Chloe’s. “This is your fault!” Maze barked, marching to close the space between them. “You did this.” 

The detective held her ground.

Maze’s resolve wavered. She stuck a finger on her own chest, emphasizing her words as she leaned in. “I was supposed to protect him,” she said, her voice just on the verge of cracking. “We supposed to protect him,” she corrected, hardening. “We’re all he has.”

“I’m sure that’s not –”

“Why didn’t we protect him?” Maze whispered hoarsely, accusingly. Chloe could see the slight tremble in her shoulders.

“Go cool off,” Chloe repeated, softer this time. She raised a comforting hand, but Maze slipped away, begrudgingly pulling out her ringing phone.

Chloe blinked, and she was gone.

 

Lucifer wasn’t frustrated.

He was way, far, beyond frustrated. He left frustrated in the dust some time ago. Frustrated wasn’t even a singular emotion anymore, to be picked and isolated from all others. It simply existed beside him as a continuous state of being, like an unpleasant smell he just couldn’t get away from.

He’d tried everything he could think of, and then some.

He’d tried every door that ever held any sort of meaning for him. Every door in his building, just to be thorough. Every nightclub he could remember visiting, every lover’s abode, every restaurant entrance in L.A. He couldn’t leave city limits. He couldn’t swim out further than a mile. As a last resort, he unfurled his wings on the penthouse balcony and flown straight up.

He’d woken up, tangled in feathers.

He’d trashed the penthouse, ripping pages out of books, breaking mirrors and shattering glass, tearing the walls apart with his bare hands as though hoping to find a world behind the world, as though the walls were hiding the true outline of his prison.

This was Hell. Of that he was sure. 

But the Hell of his own making – his own door, soon after Uriel died – had just been his penthouse. And the object of his guilt had been waiting for him. 

No one waited for him, now.

The Devil has a Hell just for him. Even he had to admire it.

In the moments where he wished the Sun would set, Lucifer would sit out on the balcony (any balcony, at this point) and listen to the infuriating silence. He was so used to being the center of attention, of being surrounded by people. The isolation was soul-crushing. In Heaven, he had his family. In Hell, he had those who fell with him, plus legions of demons and an ever-increasing number of the damned to keep him busy, to keep him occupied. On Earth, a flurry of lovers, of strangers vying for his attention.

And now.

Now he was completely and utterly, alone.

Lucifer made a habit of exhausting or intoxicating himself to the point of passing out. (The drugs and alcohol still worked, thank Dad.) When he awoke, the place would be immaculate.

He’d talked to himself for the first few… Well, he didn’t know how long. He’d woken up at least several hundred times.

The silence of it all stung him harder than he’d wanted to admit. 

He stood in the center of the penthouse, wobbling drunk, an overly-full glass in his hand. He stared, slack-jawed, at the piano.

No matter what he did, it wouldn’t make a sound.

A bark of laughter pierced the silence. For a moment, Lucifer wasn’t sure where’d it come from, such a foreign sound. He cleared his throat, reveling in the rumble. 

As he opened his mouth to speak, another voice came out.

 

Chloe awoke, stiff-necked and curled into herself. The beep of her alarm had entered her dreams and she unfolded to shut it off, turning to smack it. She opened her eyes and froze, hand held mid-air. 

A heavy but thin cotton weave blanket pooled at her still-booted feet. Someone else must have draped it on her in the night. No one had asked her leave. 

Lucifer’s condition hadn’t changed. The only marked difference was that he had rolled his head toward where she had been sitting for all of yesterday and, apparently, throughout the night.

She let herself watch his chest rise and fall, remembering the nurse’s sure hands when Chloe had loitered, watching as the other woman inspected the wound. She had lifted Lucifer’s gown enough for Chloe to see the surprisingly thin, red line, and the ugly, incongruous black stitching over his stomach and ribs. It didn’t look like enough to cause all this, and she said as much.

“It’s not,” the nurse said, with refreshing candor. She replaced the gown, her hand lingering over the fabric as she pulled her words together. Chloe watched as the nurse studied Lucifer’s face. “He’s somewhere else,” she finished, offering a polite smile as she reminded her the coffee at the cafeteria was better than what they had at the end of the hall.

Chloe knew she should be upset at the nurses’ lack of medical jargon, but honestly, she was just relieved. 

After her poisoning, the detective spent days pouring over every scrap of hospital record and forensic report, delving deep into google for the more obscure medical terminology.

But now, she didn’t want to hear any of it.

Chloe’s eyes stayed on where she knew the wound was, and tried willing herself to relax. Trixie was with Dan’s parents, leaving both her parents free to pursue what Chloe had already begun to consider the second most important case she’d ever been involved in – the first, of course, being bringing her father’s killer to justice.

She stretched out her legs, lifting herself out of the large, leather-slick chair, very intent on just simply willing herself to walk out the damn door and find whoever did this to him. 

She hesitated at Lucifer’s side, one eye on the closed door. 

Whatever resolve she had inside her crumbled.

The hospital was colder than she would’ve liked, leaving whatever residual heat from the blanket rapidly evaporating from her thin shirt and dark jeans. Absently, she laid her hand on top of his. It was cold, much colder than she’d ever felt from him. 

She followed the line of his arm up to his face.

She had never even seen him sleep. She hadn’t even known she’d wanted to.

To see him now, his face placid and expression unguarded, had her chilled to the bone. Because he didn’t look peaceful. 

He looked dead. 

She tucked her fingers under his hand, squeezing it as she leaned over, pressing her lips to his cool, damp forehead. She rested hers against his, closing her eyes.

“Lucifer, wherever you are,” she whispered. “Please come home.”

 

He shut his mouth, the drink in his hand so forgotten that it slipped from his grasp, the glass shattering on the floor. He couldn’t care less. It would clean itself up, eventually.

“I want to,” he replied, surprised at the exhaustion in his voice.

Only silence answered.

 

Chloe opened the door and promptly bumped into Maze’s back. 

Maze didn’t even budge, or betray any sense of surprise. Chloe spoke to the back of her head, able to see even from inside the room Maze’s martial stance, her crossed arms and firmly planted feet.

“Maze?” Chloe ventured. “Can you let me out, please?” 

With one motion, her roommate stepped aside.

Chloe caught her breath. Both sides of the hallway were filled with people, some chatting amiably amongst themselves while others glared at one other from across the hall, as though the few feet of linoleum between them was all that was keeping the world from falling into chaos.

Unfortunately, Chloe noticed that the first stranger, Gaudium, had not moved from his night watch.

“Morning, lady,” he said, sensing she had noticed him.

“Shut up,” Maze answered automatically, before Chloe could speak.

“Touchy, touchy,” he said, and Chloe caught a hint of what could be a Brooklyn accent in his voice. “Can’t say good morning to any pretty broads –”

“Who are all these people?” Chloe whispered, leaning into Maze’s side. 

A few of Lucifer’s guests had seen the movement at the door and were watching her with vague, but growing interest. Chloe couldn’t help but feel she was in one of those anxiety dreams, like she just found herself at the head of an important meeting at the United Nations, completely unprepared.

Faces from all races and perhaps a dozen nations had turned toward her. The only difference, as far as she could tell, between the two groups was that those on the left seemed ready to pounce, holding themselves loosely and fidgeting (much like someone else she knew, she realized with a start), while those on her right seemed more aloof and composed, leaning relaxed against the walls. 

Nurses passed between them, completely unperturbed.

Unnaturally so.

“Not people, miss,” Gaudium reported. “You see, you got the whole food chain here, with your boy at the apex. It’s why they’re all here, ya know. Scales are tipping. Balance’s about to be thrown all of our wack.”

Chloe turned to Maze for answers, but she didn’t seem eager on providing any.

“Got an up, you know,” he continued, “Need a down, too.”

Chloe narrowed her eyes at the wording.

Gaudium continued. “On yer left, the scum of the Earth –” he coughed, “– scum of Hell, ‘scue me. No elites here,” he added, lowering his voice so only the two of them could hear.

“Yeah, you’re here,” Maze added. She eyed someone across the room. “Just those who wouldn’t be missed.”

“And in this corner,” Gaudium said, a shit-eating grin on his face, “Heaven’s dullest.”

A few heads turned, taking in the creature with expressions of royal boredom.

“Okay,” Chloe drew out, stepping further into the corridor. “So this is all…”

“For a detective you’d think she’d be pretty smart,” Gaudium said to Maze, who only lifted a shoulder in response. 

“I can still shoot you,” Chloe warned, but there was no heat behind it. 

Maze smiled. “Bring it.”

“Anyway, girlie,” Gaudium said, regaining her attention. “What you’re looking at – is Lucifer’s fam.”

 

Dan rubbed his temples as the latest interviewee was escorted from the interrogation room. None – not a freaking single one of them – had anything bad to say about Lucifer. 

At first, Dan wanted to see if there were any deals in the last two months that had soured, resulting in someone brash enough to stab Lucifer under an open sky. That kind of recklessness spoke to someone impulsive, or an underlying, violently strong emotion. Not something planned.

Before he knew it, Dan needed to expand the list to include the last six months, and then he was stretching it. Again. His notepad was full of dates of deals, of I.O.U.’s Lucifer held, which ranged, bizarrely, from high-bank artists’ record deals to finding a long-lost pound cake recipe.

According to the last interviewee, Lucifer had eased the way for her to win a local gardening award. 64 year-old Wendy Hollander was, to quote, “sick of Martha Price’s petunias winning every god-damn year.” (When she stopped halfway out the door to say “Also, he’s phenomenal in the sack,” Dan just nodded, amazed at his own complete lack of surprise.)

(But that was another story.)

“Sir?” asked the uniformed officer, holding open the door. “Want me to send in the next one?”

Dan didn’t bother to look up, scratching down another note. “Yeah, man. How many are left?”

The officer didn’t answer. Dan looked up, leaning over the table. He followed the officer’s gaze out the door. 

The hallway was filled with what appeared to be a completely random assortment of people, chatting with one another amiably. Some held concerned looks on their faces, uncomfortable in a police station, but none stood out as particularly guilty-looking from this angle. 

“Any of them look like murderers to you?” Dan asked, the levity completely lacking in his voice. 

“Uh,” the officer hesitated.

Dan sighed. “Send in the next one.”

 

At least now Lucifer could definitely answer the question, “What would happen if you killed yourself in Hell?”

The answer, shockingly, was that you wound up back in Hell.

Who knew.

Lucifer laid flat on his back, having only moments ago swan-dived from his balcony and hit the ground in roughly the same position, contemplating the fact that for all his power – his innate, God-given power – over will itself, he could not will himself to be anywhere but here. 

Not this time, it seemed.

Lucifer sighed, running a hand over his face. He couldn’t create something out of nothing. That was the limitation. But he could do damn near pretty much anything else, just by wanting it. Build stars. Cut a hole in the fabric of the Universe, just to send his mom to another one. There was only one being in the Universe who equaled his power, who could pull something from nothing but needed Lucifer to…

Needed Lucifer…

Lucifer waited, patiently, for whatever thought was trying to push its way to the forefront of his mind. Because there was something similar, there, something between the only two people in the Universe who seemed to know who he really was.

The same two who could not bend to his will. Who were immune…

To his charms.

Lucifer very carefully brushed the covers off, unwilling to jerk around too hard just in case the growing thought was still fragile inside his head.

They weren’t the same. That would be horrendous and weird and he shook that image right out of his head. 

Lucifer slowly stood, stuck his hands on his naked hips, and surveyed the room as a king his kingdom.

“I am still the Devil,” he assured himself, his voice growing stronger with every word. “And this is still Hell.”

He paused, certain now where he had to go. Only silence answered. 

But this time, it felt like a confirmation.

He smiled, for the first time in far too long. “Lovely.”

 

Chloe returned to the floor from the cafeteria downstairs, holding her to-go cup of coffee, just this side of too hot. She took a sip and grimaced. She didn’t want to complain about something as mundane as hospital coffee, but her mind found the thread and held onto it for dear life, searching for any sort of normalcy. 

But, sugar. It definitely needed sugar. 

She asked a nurse, who directed her toward a small snack area just down from Lucifer’s room. As she approached, she overheard a whisper-fight grow louder with each closing step.

A tall, Arabic looking man in a bespoke suit shook his red-faced head just beside the cream and sugar, bending to admonish to a young – teenage, really – Asian woman sporting an Australian accent as well as a pair of chucks and ripped jeans.

“Father in Heaven,” she muttered, striking Chloe as a very adult thing to say, throwing a hand up to rub at an apparent ache in her shoulder. 

“Don’t you speak to me of –” he started.

“No, you’re not listening to me!” she argued, turning on her heel dramatically. “Are you talking about Paul, or the disciple-formerly-known-as-Paul, because I swear –”

“You mean James,” he said, his eye twinkling as she huffed.

Chloe tried to discern any familial relationship to Lucifer in his profile. The nose, maybe, and frame. The height. Not much else.

“Which James!” the other woman exclaimed. 

Chloe desperately wished she could turn around, but her feet were already carrying her right into the center of their conversation. The man threw his head back and laughed. “They were all James!” she continued, having a bit of fun herself. Obviously they knew each other, and this was probably a recurring argument. “At least with John, you knew which John they were talking about because he was John-John. ‘The’ John. Now it’s all John, John the Second, John-Paul, a hundred James’ –”

Chloe excused herself to sneak between them, grabbing a couple packs of sugar before moving off to the side to set down her cup.

He took a moment to smile fondly at Chloe. “No, you remember. The nice one,” he continued.

She noticed the other woman rolled her eyes at that, leaving Chloe mentally tripping over herself, trying to understand why.

“Which nice one.”

“The one I liked. The fat one.”

“Yeah. Paul.”

“Not Paul,” he said, the roll of his eyes obvious in his voice. “Though he was also a little tubby.”

An unbidden memory surfaced, of Chloe sneaking up on Lucifer and his brother laughing at the auction. The name Paul had come up between them, just before she arrived.

Chloe tore open three packs, overturning them into the coffee. “Honey cakes,” she muttered to herself, shaking the last bit of sugar out.

To her complete shock, the two beside her fell into each other, laughing. They were both giggling (that was probably the closest familial thing she’d heard), as though she’d accidentally made the funniest joke they’d ever heard. Each had an appreciative twinkle in their eye. The man sobered as his companion continued.

“Honey cakes!” the girl laughed, gripping the man’s arm. She spoke out of the side of her mouth a phrase in a language Chloe didn’t understand – Latin, maybe? – and they fell into fits once more.

Chloe politely smiled. 

It wasn’t the weirdest argument she’d heard even that hour, let alone the last few days.

One of the strangest was when she had come across Amenadiel in the parking lot, dispatching a group of what could only be L.A.’s homeless with instructions to find Lucifer. When she’d happened upon them, informing them all which room Lucifer was in, the crowd scampered away – quite literally, though one, she could say, definitely slithered – and Amenadiel smiled in what she was sure to be a friendly way, but only felt forced and unnatural to her.

Soon afterward she’d been accosted by two men just outside Lucifer’s door, Maze grinning as she watched the argument unfold. Apparently, they took issue with Lucifer’s position as consultant with the L.A.P.D., wanting her to give Lucifer his due.

“Every man that sees him does not forget him, but does not behold him,” began one, a short, pale blond young man with a sharp nose, who looked like he had missed several dozen meals in a row. His companion was of the same complexion of her roommate, but otherwise mirrored the other man.

“The Cloven Hoofed,” said the other.

Maze snorted. 

Chloe jutted a thumb in the direction of Lucifer’s room. “That guy. Lucifer,” she uplifted her hands to air quote, “The Skillet” Morningstar.”

“The same,” said the blond, enthusiastically. “Belial, who was cast upon a burning crag,” he continued proudly, voice raising.

“Who I have seen on an actual, high horse.” She hid a smile as the first flustered, and the other stepped in. 

“The sea boils in desolation,” he said, his voice low, in secret.

“Oh,” Chloe mockingly said, nodding her head vehemently. “He-who-steals-my-daughter’s-sandwiches.” Maze opened her mouth, but Chloe lifted a finger, stopping her. “You do too, so you have no room to talk.”

The blond had had enough. “The harlot that shaketh death! You don’t know of whom you speak!”

“No, no I do,” assured Chloe. “The L.A.P.D. consultant and eternal pain in my ass… who sings ‘90s pop ballads.” 

That did it. Maze, sensing danger, stepped forward just as the blond lunged. She spun the two of them around, pinning him by the throat against the wall. He croaked out “The King!” before Maze shot him in the thigh, sending him kneeling on the floor.

No one else moved. No nurses had even passed by.

Maze barely noticed as the young man struggled under her grasp, hissing as he tried shoving her off. She turned to look at Chloe over her shoulder. “They can’t sit with us.”

 

“The _King_ ,” he said.

The title had been bouncing around her brain all morning, trying to wrap her brain around what kind of possible mob/crime family/cult Lucifer could have ever been part of enough to earn such a title.

Whatever it was, he got out. Maybe only as few years ago. Which definitely explained the whole, “humans are fascinating” thing, at least. He’d probably never been around anyone with a shred of normalcy.

She took a sip of her coffee, testing it. Better.

She left the two laughing beside her to their weirdness.

Now that was familiar.

 

Lucifer stood in front of the one door he hadn’t opened in Los Angeles, taking in the frame. He leaned closer, admiring the detail before straightening, shaking out his arms and adjusting a cufflink.

He caught sight of his palm, still scalded red.

He decided to continue ignoring it, instead chancing a look toward the blazing sky.

This was it. The moment he showed his Father that not even Hell could hold him.

But no words to came to mind.

The cold doorknob was one he had held a hundred times before, but it felt different under his hand now. He tried to remember if it was exactly that shape – before deciding it really didn’t matter, and he would be back to Earth soon enough to check it out there, anyway.

He pushed open the door, looking in. The furniture sat placidly in the quiet, as though someone had just stepped out.

He stepped in.

Closed his eyes.

Took a breath.

When he opened them again, nothing had changed. 

The door shut softly behind him.

He’d never heard a latch shut with such finality.

 

When Chloe returned to the room with her over sweetened coffee, she found Maze berating Gaudium with an intensity that had her hair standing on end. She imagined that if she had her knives, Maze would be ripping the man to actual, literal shreds.

Chloe pulled her in the room with her as she entered. Maze glanced at Lucifer. It hadn’t taken long for Chloe to notice Maze wouldn’t look at him for longer than a few seconds, dropping her gaze to the floor and doorway instead.

“Why are you being so hard on the guy?” Chloe asked, hopefully quietly enough that they weren’t heard by the man, just outside.

Maze shook her head, reluctant to answer. Chloe waited.

Maze was never very patient, and gave in. “If he’s here, that means someone else is, too.”

Chloe shrugged. “Not just because he cares about Lucifer?”

The other woman huffed out a laugh, staring out the door. “He’s loyal to the Lightbringer,” she answered, distracted. “He always brings Gaudium, when he comes. But if he is here, that means something…” 

Her voice faltered as she looked upon Lucifer, still and nearly lifeless in the bed. 

“Something’s wrong,” Chloe finished for her.

Sounds of a small commotion came from the hall. Maze froze, staring out the door.

“Maze?” Chloe asked, stepped beside her roommate. “Who is this ‘he’ that you’re so worried about?”

Maze barely motioned, but it was enough that Chloe followed her friend’s gaze. 

Chloe was glad she’d put down the coffee.

 

Lucifer waited, trying to think. It had never been his strong suit.

The same, unbidden thought surfaced in his mind, and he tried desperately to remove it. 

What if this wasn’t Hell?

In a flash, he was rushing up the stairs, throwing open the door to the bathroom, the linen closet, Maze’s bedroom, Chloe’s bedroom.

He looked over the crumpled bedsheets, as though the detective had just stepped out. 

It should have been so easy. He should have been able to bed her the moment they met. Even if she couldn’t bend to his will. 

Was that what everyone else did?

Did they even want to be with him, or was his power over will too unconscious that he drew people to him regardless of their free will, or not?

He’d never thought of it as a negative, before.

He’d never thought of it before, at all.

_Meaningless._

The word rung out in his head.

Hell, indeed.

No, he knew what Hell was. Not just a place, but not being unable to have everything he wanted.

Not able to have her.

He stepped over the threshold and into the room, drawn. 

Could a place be Hell if its occupant knew it was?

Wouldn’t that mitigate the fear, somehow? The thought that none of it was real. Wouldn’t that help a soul save a small bit of hope for itself? That they could get out?

(The thought that none of it was _real_.)

Lucifer sat on the bed, smoothing out the sheet beside him. 

The room smelled of the detective. How could he know that? How could he know what her bedroom looked like? He had never been inside it.

How had he never been inside it?

(The thought that none of it _had been real._ )

Lucifer dragged himself back downstairs, grabbing a bottle of wine from that hidden spot in the pantry (that he created, frankly disappointed – but not surprised – at the detective’s abysmal alcohol collection) and plopped down on the couch. He draped himself ungracefully over it, the bottle at his lips. He drank greedily, uncaringly if any spilled.

He lifted the bottle toward the ceiling. 

“ _Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris_ , you know,” he said. “It is a comfort to the wretched to have company in misery, but you already know that, don’t you?”

Lucifer waited. 

Nothing. 

He spoke the words he feared most. “Maybe this is what’s real,” he whispered, studying the bottle.

He huffed out a laugh. 

“Be pretty bloody brilliant, I’d give you that. All those times I wondered if it could be real, all those things that were too good to be true… well. How could I trust anything, thinking you may be behind it all? Fool me once, Dad.”

He took another drink. “Fool me once,” he repeated, softer. “You’ve made a fool of me. Because I was right all along, and didn’t know it. Because I know how to leave Hell. But I’ve no idea how to leave the Universe.”

Lucifer paused, staring at the label. His mind could barely register the brand. It was meaningless to him, now.

“This is all your fault, you know. Everything. All of it,” he said, his voice growing louder. “It’s not on me. They blame me, for an eternity, for the rest of forever they will continue to blame me but it’s all you!” 

He wobbled himself upright, eyes still fixed upward. “It’s you who created Hell in the first place. Nobody’s ever good enough for you! You have to control them, with fear, with promises, you can’t just let anyone be! What’s the point of free will if you aren’t given the choice to screw up a time or two? What do they have to feel so guilty about as to burn for all eternity?”

He hummed, lifting an expectant eyebrow the sky.

He waited for an answer, his resolve crumbling.

“Why am I here? What do I have to feel guilty about?”

He looked at the bottle, hanging limply off his hand.

Like he were a tree, and it the fruit.

He knew the answer.

The bottle bounced on the carpeting as it slipped from his grip, rolling morosely back and forth as it settled. The last bit of wine spilled out from its neck onto the hardwood, blood-dark against the grain. 

Lucifer’s throat constricted as he swallowed back the bile of his fear.

He had always known.

 

“Hey, Chlo, listen,” began a familiar voice. Dan approached from the hall off her side, tapping his notepad guiltily. “Lucifer’s got like, zero enemies, which is seriously weird. I haven’t found anybody…” 

He trailed off, finally noticing that neither woman was paying him any attention. He jolted when the pile of laundry beside him shifted to its feet and stepped aside, scurrying past. 

Dan followed the line of sight down the hallway.

Whatever initial commotion had stopped, leaving the space preternaturally stilled. Phones had stopped ringing. No overhead announcements were being made. Those on the left had lowered themselves, making themselves smaller, while those on the right squared away, lifting their chins in greeting. 

Maze crossed her arms, pulling herself to her full height. 

Her confidence sparked others. The few the man had passed shifted their stances, holding themselves taunt and at the ready, focusing on each other’s movements.

Maze took a half-step back, guarding the entrance to Lucifer’s room. 

“Oh, my God,” Dan said, his notebook drooping. “There’s two of them.”

Chloe had no words. 

Lucifer’s identical twin approached, his black combat boots making no sound. He wore dark, low-slung jeans on his powerful frame, almost reminding her of her lieutenant, clinging in all the right places and leaving Chloe wondering if he and Lucifer were identical in… other ways. A snug, dark green t-shirt accented his strong shoulders and dark eyes and hair, cut shorter than Lucifer’s and curling in on the ends, product-less. His clean-shaven face nodded at a few as he passed. 

He stopped just short of the three of them, confident and tall, taking them in with a smile that was so unlike the man she knew that Chloe felt as though the Universe were literally sliding into a different plane of existence. 

“Did you know?” Dan asked.

Chloe shook her head.

The man waited patiently. Chloe saw the similarity right away, there: he and Lucifer were both used to aweing people with their presence.

“Hi,” he said, when Chloe’s eyes finally reached heaved themselves upward to meet his. He spoke without a trace of an accent, and held out a hand. Chloe took it only after Dan elbowed her softly in the ribs. He caught the movement. “I’m Mike.”

Chloe shut her mouth, vaguely aware that she was holding onto the man’s hand way past the point of proprietary.

He didn’t seem to mind. “Chloe, is it?”

She may have nodded. His hand enveloped hers, like one of the warm, fuzzy hugs Lucifer pretended to hate. She couldn’t explain it, but something visceral responded his presence. Perhaps it was his military bearing. But she felt protected, with him there. Safe.

With a start, she realized that while she knew Lucifer had and would continue to protect her, she did not instinctively trust him as she did this man.

In fact, she was convinced that he would be the one to get her killed.

Dan nudged himself into her personal space, offering his own hand as she swallowed down a thick, greasy shot of guilt at the thought. “Detective Dan Espinoza. We’re working Lucifer’s case.”

The other man shook his head in confusion, taking his hand. “Case?”

Dan broke into a nervous laugh, releasing him. “The, uh, attempted –”

His voice was cut off by the door slamming. Chloe was pretty sure the scraping inside was Maze pulling the chair in front of the door to block it.

Michael smiled apologetically, turning his attention to the door. He knocked lightly, calling out “Mazikeen,” with stern fondness, as though disciplining a child who was doing something actually quite funny. He even stuck a fist on his hip. 

Chloe took the opportunity to wordlessly confirm with Dan that he was just as shocked as she was.

“Mazikeen,” Michael repeated, ceasing his knocking. “You know I would never do anything to hurt my brother.”

A sharp series of short expletives came from the other side of the door.

“Maze,” he continued, shaking his head amiably at Chloe. “You know what happened with before.”

She stared, dumbfounded.

“Maze,” he said, more sternly.

Nothing.

He shrugged before pushing lightly on the door, the chair scraping across the floor. He entered the room and with a finger, beckoned Maze toward him. She begrudgingly complied. 

“How did this happen?” he asked, not yet looking at his brother. 

“It’s not a Hell-forged blade,” she answered. “Or one of yours. I don’t know what could cause this.”

Michael gave a curt nod, like a soldier, and moved to Lucifer’s side, lifting the cover to look at the wound.

He struck her as completely unimpressed by it. 

After a moment, he lifted his eyes to his brother’s closed ones.

“Chloe,” he asked gently. She couldn’t help the leap of surprise in her chest at missing the accent when the other man spoke, so used to hearing something else from the identical other. “Is there anyone new in my brother’s life? Someone who doesn’t belong?”

Chloe stepped further into the room while Dan loitered just outside, eavesdropping. “Doesn’t belong?” she repeated.

Dan stilled.

Michael straightened. “People do possess that treasured ability to sense if something’s wrong, you know,” he said teasingly. “Someone who doesn’t feel right. Whose intentions you have yet to discover.”

“I don’t –” she started, furrowing her brow in thought. “Lucifer knows a lot of people. In and out of his life. And other things.”

“I’m gonna get a coffee,” Dan told no one in particular, quickly departing.

Michael rested his hand on Lucifer’s chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath.

The demon stepped closer, threateningly.

“Maze,” Chloe said, intercepting. “Why don’t you wait outside.”

Michael moved to the foot of the bed as Maze obeyed, shutting the door behind her.

“I didn’t know Lucifer had a twin,” Chloe said, breaking the awkward silence as she shifted her weight, unsure if she was intruding or not.

“Hmm?” Michael asked, distractedly. “Who?”

Chloe looked between them, her heart dropping. 

He wasn’t the Devil. 

She had always known that, of course. He wasn’t evil.

A soft sigh escaped from her, unbidden. She thought she’d been slowly coming to know him. To know the real Lucifer.

Or… whoever. 

“I barely know him at all,” she said, a sinking heaviness in her chest. “You’re the first person I’ve met who can tell me about him.” 

“Is that something you want?” he asked, suddenly.

Chloe jerked at the question, so used to having the man be a complete mystery, something she wanted solved.

She could ask. 

And that really was the crux of it all, wasn't it? The one thing Lucifer always proclaimed to hold above all others, the one thing she could never be certain he was telling her.

The truth.

She had a right to know, being his partner. Her life was often in his hands. Partners should know things about each other. Enough to keep each other safe. 

She could ask where they grew up, who Lucifer was as a child, why he left home, what all the Devil business was about. She could ask what hurt him so, what trauma he had experienced to create such a profound impact on his worldview. 

She could find out all his secrets from a stranger with his face. 

She could know.

 

As if drawn, Lucifer pulled himself upright from the couch. He had fallen asleep, but unlike other times, had not woken in the penthouse.

Which was a marked improvement.

He listened for what must have awoken him, but nothing made a sound. Not the wind, or a bird, or the house settling.

The world had been abandoned, and he left behind. 

As he looked around, his eyes landed on Trixie’s door. She had a new, elaborately-decorated pink and glittery sign on the door, the gaudiness of it catching his eye.

The door was cracked open.

He passed over it, craning his neck to look up the stairs.

Lucifer dreamily pressed a thumb to his palm, the vague ache making its way into his mind.

He was no more than a ghost, passing through people’s lives. A whisper on their lips, a moan in the night, only to be half-remembered in the morning light.

Eventually came back to the small, cracked door, curious. There was only darkness behind it. The burning, ochre sunlight had not penetrated the space. The girl must have had her blinds drawn the last time he’d noticed, enough for his mind to conjure the image.

Lucifer laid back down with an exhausted huff, throwing an arm over his eyes.

 

She could know. 

But Lucifer had only ever asked one real thing from her. 

_The only thing that matters_.

“No.”

She’d seen the same look on her partner. She would catch it in the briefest of moments. They usually ended up quickly covered by a quip, but when she pulled out the necklace he gave her, she saw it again, plain as day. She touched it now, wrapping an arm around herself. The small gift was a comforting weight against her chest, and she rolled it between her fingers, warm from her skin.

“I can see why he loves you.”

She had no answer for that.

Michael went around to the side of the bed, the small mattress dipping under his weight. He replaced his hand on Lucifer’s chest, closing his eyes. 

“I don’t accept that he’s crazy,” she found herself saying, defending the man who could not defend himself. “Or this Devil’s business. I don’t know what his deal is. I don’t know why he thinks that he isn’t, but,” she paused, wondering if Michael was even listening at all, “he’s a good man.”

Only the machines broke the silence, but Chloe couldn’t bring herself to leave.

Michael held out his other hand, reaching slightly behind him. 

“May I?” he asked.

It took her a moment to understand.

It wasn’t her hand he wanted.

She took in a breath, feeling the grooves in the smoothed bullet against her fingertips.

Lucifer had only asked that she believed him. Not to have faith in him. Not to believe _in_ him.

Just to believe him.

She lifted the necklace over her head and set the bullet in his brother’s palm, the light, silver chain daintily coiling around it as it fell.

Michael closed his hand and Chloe stepped back, pressing up against the door. Sharp little beeps filled the space as Michael lightly pressed down, his brow furrowed in concentration. 

After a few moments, he relaxed, and pressed the necklace to Lucifer’s hand, holding it closed with his own. 

“C’mon, Sammy,” he whispered.

Chloe was glad the door was there to hold her. 

Mike and Sam.

Twins.

Brothers.

Blood.

It was all so…

Normal.

And Lucifer had never told her.

How could he keep something like this from her?

“You gotta want it,” he murmured.

The tears at the corners of her eyes threatened to spill over. She couldn’t take it. Couldn’t take the weakness in herself, or the figure of her partner, her friend, fragile and so, utterly human. All the secrets, all the lies and half-truths and avoidance tactics. Not for one more second.

She shut the door behind her as she left.

 

Lucifer jerked in surprise. The motion pulled at his side, the spot as tender as though burned. He looked down, and, seeing nothing, untucked his shirt from his pants, lifting it. 

No wound was visible. It hadn’t been the whole time he’d been stuck.

But it had also never hurt.

As he lifted himself up to sitting, his eye caught the door again. 

The crack was slightly larger, as though a cat has pushed the door aside to go in.

The spawn. The last time he had seen her had been during that wretched board game, with both girls smiling at his expense. It had only taken a few small mistakes for his initial real estate empire to crumble, leaving him nearly destitute. 

He blamed the guerilla tactics the girls employed, even though the detective had laughed at the idea, calling it absurd. 

The offspring had won the game. It was too much to Chloe’s surprise, Lucifer thought, telling her off later for not having more faith in her child’s manipulative and money-acquiring abilities.

Later in the evening, Chloe had returned from putting the child to bed, surprised to see that Lucifer had remained behind. He dawdled on his phone, seated at the breakfast counter.

He hadn’t caught her surprise, still distracted by the decidedly not child-safe short video. By the time he looked up, Chloe looked as though she was trying to memorize the moment. He gazed back at her openly, curious.

Before either of them could react, the child escaped from her bedchamber and crashed into Lucifer’s leg, a grin on her face as she offered him one last quick “Goodnight!” 

Lucifer looked into the child’s happy brown eyes.

He had died for her, once. When that pathetic malcontent took her as leverage over the detective.

It was in that moment, in a scene that had replayed itself before a hundred times with never more than a second thought on his part, that a feeling rose in his chest he had never felt before – not even with the detective. 

For the first time, Lucifer hoped he hadn’t damned them all. 

The Devil propelled himself up over the couch. He kicked the door to the child’s bedroom wide open, and stepped into darkness.

 

He coughed violently, jolting upright and finding himself encased in light and trapped, tugged back and pushed down by…

Himself?

He tried to speak but found he could not, his heart racing in panic. The bright lights shattered against his eyes, and he struggled to push a firm hand away. The blood rushed in his ears, narrowing his vision. Somewhere in the chaos he heard a door open.

God, was he sick of doors. 

With a gagging cough, he pulled the intubation tube from his throat, tugging his knees beneath him and folding over onto himself. 

It certainly felt more real than Hell.

In the commotion his wings began unfolding instinctually, seeking to steady him as he nearly toppled over, that part of his mind usually concentrated on keeping them hidden otherwise occupied.

The same firm hand suddenly clamped down on his back, snapping the wings back and leaving him wobbling. Lucifer continued coughing, dots of blood spattering on the white sheet, heaving air into his uncooperative lungs.

Someone was holding his wings down when they may have actually been kind of helpful in a defensive way and Lucifer panicked, the sensation of trying and failing to unfurl them more frightening than he’d like to admit. 

And he was cold, so stupidly cold. 

Guess he acclimated to Hell. Again.

He smiled, running his tongue over the blood on his teeth.

So this wasn’t Hell.

The coughing subsided enough for him to notice there were soft hands on his face, his neck. He jerked out of their touch, falling back onto the bed and shoving unruly air back into his lungs.

Maze and Chloe each took a side of the bed as Michael stepped back to the foot of it, the crisis averted.

His throat hurt too much to speak, though he managed a groan at the sight of the three of them, together. He twisted, pulling up the atrocious, half-fallen gown to look at the wound.

Gone.

He risked a look up at his brother. 

Michael nodded once, understanding the thanks Lucifer may never say aloud. 

“What?” he croaked.

Michael’s eyes darted to Chloe, but Lucifer’s fixed stare told him he could speak freely. 

“The Holy Lance.”

Maze stared at Michael, anxiety evidence in her taunt shoulders and legs. Chloe gripped Lucifer’s fist, which was still clutching something without his realizing. 

“Longinus?” Michael asked. 

Chloe knew she was missing part of the conversation, but couldn’t bring herself to care.

Lucifer lifted his hand and unclenched his fist. 

The bullet had burned its silhouette into his palm. Chloe gently lifted it away, settling it in her own.

How long had it been there?

“Marcus,” Lucifer managed, pushing himself to lay further back.

Maze was on her feet and out the door before Chloe could blink.

“Marcus?” she repeated. Lucifer tried to lift himself more upright but Chloe squeezed his arm, saying “later” before she swiftly stood, striding the few steps over to the door to bang on it, shouting “Where is a damn nurse!” 

Lucifer groaned and fell back onto the bed. Michael threw his head back in a good-natured laugh.

Chloe glanced over her shoulder at the brothers grinning at one another, and wondered what the hell could have come between them so much that Lucifer never even spoke of the other man.

It was abruptly accompanied by the idea that she may never really know.

 

Maze caught up to Dan in the parking lot as he oscillated under the entranceway, turning his phone in his hands. She dragged him alongside her to her car, trying to explain the situation the best she could while also using less than a handful of words. 

He happily filled in the rest, relieved to find someone to talk to who didn’t automatically believe he was crazy.

She drove them to the precinct, Dan’s voice growing hoarse from shouting as she weaved, speeding, before she punched him in the shoulder and told him to live a little. He watched as she expertly maneuvered them through winding traffic, and, soon enough, found himself laughing as the sheer exhilaration of it. 

After a quick stop to confirm Marcus was gone, Dan grabbed his address and they flew there, Dan as yet unwilling to involve any other police until he had vetted the situation. 

After all, he was already in deep shit with the suits downtown, and accusing the Lieutenant of attempted murder wasn’t a great way to crawl his way out of it.

Maze kicked down the door, but to no avail.

No one was home.

It looked like no one even lived there.

 

A confounded nurse walked out the room and past Chloe, who waited, bouncing on her toes, just outside the door. The hallway bustled with activity, and yet the nurses’ continued to seem immune to noticing the multitude of people taking up space.

Down the hall, a familiar face approached. 

The Lieutenant marched down the hall and, upon seeing Chloe, faltered – but only for a moment. She noticed, chalking it up to surprise. “Lieutenant,” she said, when he was still a short distance away. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer, his eyes darting between her and the door behind her. He didn’t slow his approach. She tensed, something in her responding instinctually to his aggression.

Beside her, the door opened. The heads of those stationed around swiveled to watch as Michael stepped out.

Marcus slid to a stop.

Beside Michael, Lucifer ducked a head out to look at the crowd, a smile already on his face. He had yet to change out of the hospital gown, which was only loosely tied across his back.

Michael placed a calming hand on Lucifer’s shoulder, serving also to hold him back when he finally noticed who, exactly, was staring. Lucifer lowered his chin, a Cheshire smile on his face. His eyes blazed darkly with manic glee. 

“Is this him?” Michael asked, loud enough for all present company to hear. Members of both sides bristled, enough for Marcus to lean his weight back on his rear leg, readying himself. Chloe felt the revelation wash over her, and she pushed down the revulsion that accompanied it. 

Lucifer dragged his eyes back to the man at his side. Much to her surprise, he lifted a hand for the man to take. “Brother?” he asked. After a moment of hesitation, Lucifer pressed on. “We could have some real fun, here. You know we never let a little thing like reality hold us back, before.”

Michael studied the hand, but Chloe could feel he was watching her, instead.

Lucifer closed the hand into a fist, lowering it back to his side. In the motion, Chloe could understand more than she could ever rationally discover. A cycle of patterns revealing itself, unfolding in her mind. 

Lucifer always offering. 

Michael always declining. 

And just like that, Lucifer’s walls slammed back up. “Very well,” he said, tugging at the front of the gown. “I’ll just have to do it myself.”

He stepped closer and out from under Michael’s hand.

Chloe, for her partner’s sake, tried to discern if he were wearing anything – anything at all – underneath the gown, only to be stopped short by the sight of something that wasn’t there.

His scars were gone.

Just… gone.

Lucifer pressed forward, only stopping short when Marcus slipped a knife out from behind him.

Chloe desperately wished she had kept her weapon on her, but she had let her guard down, thinking the hospital would be safe.

Thinking that Lucifer would be safe.

The ranks closed in on Marcus from either side. Lucifer held up a hand to stop them, and all obeyed. 

Chloe had seen Lucifer through a man through a window and reduce suspects to screams with less than words, but she had never felt such raw power emanate from him before.

Much to her horror, she found herself incredibly drawn toward it.

Even if he was two string-pulls away from being completely in the nude.

Marcus tossed the knife to the floor. It skittered to rest at Lucifer’s feet. He didn’t move, so Chloe quickly bent to carefully grab it.

Lucifer inched forward. “What have I ever done to you?” he asked.

“You’re…” he started. “I thought –” 

“You thought you were balancing the scales,” injected Michael. “They are supposed to be polar opposites, after all,” he explained.

Chloe watched Lucifer’s family stiffen further, tensing. “Lucifer,” she said, hoping to bring him back to her. “He gave up his weapon. He’s not armed.” 

Lucifer didn’t answer, so she continued. “Tell me what happened.”

“When, detective,” he snapped, unwilling to turn to face her, but she could feel the rage boiling just beneath the surface. “When that man tried to kill me with the Spear of Destiny, or before, the first time he – when he first –”

“Brother,” warned Michael.

“Exactly.” A singular, strong voice carried from the end of the hall. The four of them turned to face it. “The Spear isn’t a weapon of death,” Amenadiel continued, the crowd parting to accommodate him. “And they’re not opposites. They’re still brothers,” he told Marcus.

Marcus nodded, his eyes on the ground.

“It’s a tool of rebirth. You could never have killed my brother with it." He smiled. "Don’t you think someone else would have tried that by now?” 

Lucifer bristled. “Very helpful, thanks.” 

Marcus began, then spoke in low tones, enough that Chloe wasn’t sure what he might have really said, but it sounded like a question.

“No,” Amenadiel assured, placing a hand on Marcus’ shoulder. “Its not.”

Michael stepped away, gesturing for everyone else to move along before taking place on Marcus’ other side.

Marcus paused under Michael’s hand, looking at a still-seething Lucifer. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Michael and Amenadiel led him toward the elevators.

She didn’t know, then, that’d she’d never see him again, but knew that he would be taken care of, in one way or another. 

She really hoped it was the legal way. Something about the two who led him away assured her that he would be fairly dealt with.

The crowd murmured. Chloe caught Lucifer’s unease as he rubbed at his side, only absently responding to those who caught his eye, tucking their heads in reverence and goodbye.

“Hey,” she said gently, stilling his hand. “You should really lay back down.”

He looked at her hand. She’d seen the look before: it was the same as when he’d been trying to get himself shot. 

Desperate.

“What is it?” she asked. 

The words were on his lips, but he shook his head, unwilling to speak. 

“Tell me,” she quietly pushed.

A nurse passed, barely acknowledging them. For the first time in a long time, Chloe heard an announcement on the overhead speaker. Somewhere in the distance, a phone rang. 

“I don’t know,” he said, simply.

With the hospital coming alive around her, Chloe remembered where she was, and why. 

“Ten minutes ago you were knocking on Death’s door,” she said, her body heaving as she pulled in an exhausted sigh. “I’m not going to pretend to understand any part of what happened. Not right now. Right now we need to get you checked out, and hopefully as far away from here as possible, because if I have to drink one more cup of hospital coffee, I’m going to die.”

The corners of his mouth upturned in a small smile. “Worse than the precinct?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Never thought I’d miss it.”

“Me, neither,” he answered softly, looking into her eyes. 

Whatever looked back at her was open and a little raw, like a wound that had been scoured clean.

Hurt.

She ducked into the room, gathering the few supplies she’d taken from home. She left a simple prayer there, though she had never been one to, looking over crumpled sheets in the now-empty bed. It was probably a common enough one.

_Thank you._

 

The resolution was too simple. Too clean. It even featured his brother.

They did the unthinkable. They wanted the unthinkable. 

They wanted him to be okay.

They wanted him to be _saved_.

 

A bewildered nurse finally released him. Lucifer quickly dressed in the suit Maze had brought, taking one last look at the burn in his palm. 

“You ready?” Chloe asked, closing the door as he walked out, fiddling with a cufflink, her eyes on the nurses’ station. She strode over as he stayed behind. A nurse handed her a clipboard. Her eyes widened, flipping over a page before gesturing sharply for him to join her.

The nurse asked her a question, taking away her attention.

Without her attention, Lucifer felt as though he had stepped into shadow. The world moved around him, empty and cold. He fished the ring from his chest pocket, exactly where he knew Maze would have put it. He slipped it on, staring at the stone.

 _Sentimental_ , he'd called it. His brother was wrong. The ring wasn't from Hell.

It was from before.

“I don’t know,” he told it.

With his burned visage gone, it was now the only reminder of the choice he'd made.

 

A week later, Lucifer sat at the piano, toying with the keys while Amenadiel looked over another book in his collection before replacing it on the shelf. He had probably picked up each book twice over. To say he was hanging around was a bit of an understatement.

Word around the station was that Marcus finally cracked under pressure, and left the force.

Amenadiel had refused to tell him what they had done with the man, assuring that him that it had been taken care of. He wanted to know, but part of him was grateful he didn’t. He could continue to imagine all sorts of cruel and unusual punishments, if he ever got the chance to lay eyes or hands on him again.

Lucifer stilled his hands. They had begun to shake.

He hadn’t been able to rid himself of the nervous twitch, finding it showing up whenever the question came to mind.

“You said he was cursed,” Lucifer repeated. 

Amenadiel shut the book, setting it on the nearby desk. “That was his word.”

“For being two thousand years old, he was particularly spry.”

The former angel walked closer, plopping himself down in one of the chairs. “I’m not surprised,” he chuckled. “Father beat you to that punishment.”

“Eternal Life as punishment? That doesn’t sound all that malicious. I can think of several dozen –”

“He said it was Hell.”

Lucifer snapped his mouth shut, his gaze swiftly dropping back to the keys.

“He said it was exactly Hell. Never aging, never growing older. Watching your family die, friends. Always a step out of sync with the rest of humanity, looking in.” Amenadiel lowered his gaze, speaking softly. “Like us.”

“How did he know?”

“Know what?”

“What Hell is like?”

Amenadiel chuckled. “I’ve heard it used as a term of expression.”

Lucifer remained silent, prompting Amenadiel to lean forward, unable to decipher his brother’s expression.

“How do you know this isn’t Hell?” 

(Amenadiel used to relish his siblings looking to him when they were lost or confused. He was the responsible, knowledgeable older sibling who always had the answer. Or, at least, that’s how they perceived him to be. 

Now he couldn’t stand it.)

“Why would you think this is Hell?”

Lucifer slowly shut the cover over the keys, unable to find something to play. “Have you ever tried to leave?”

Amenadiel considered answering, but knew whatever he was going to say – that yes, of course, he’d tried to go to the Silver City but could not, could not travel home or to Hell, even if he wanted to – but that wasn’t going to help. 

“There’s no reason this couldn’t be Hell,” Lucifer continued. He cracked a disingenuous smile. “After all, you’re here.” It faded. “And you said it yourself: Dad tasked you with running Hell in my absence.”

Amenadiel sighed as he stood and came over, placing a hand firm and warm on his shoulder. 

It may have meant to be comforting, but Lucifer could only think: 

It was there to keep him down.

 _Way_ down. 

“How could we know? All this could be an elaborate torture chamber, designed for the Devil himself.”

“Luci,” Amenadiel began, shaking his head. “You’re the true ruler of Hell. You know it better than anyone, perhaps even Father. You’ve lived there, longer than anyone in the Universe. Does this feel like Hell to you?”

The all-too-familiar silence resounded.

Amenadiel’s hand slipped from his shoulder.

Lucifer didn’t need to say anything. They both knew the answer.

 

Lucifer didn’t leave the penthouse for a few days after that, nor invited up any visitors. He declined to eat once whatever he had in the fridge was gone, choosing instead to concentrate on reducing the amber liquid in various bottles and emptying cigarette packs.

The sun was starting to set over the horizon. Lucifer dragged a chair onto the balcony, leaning back into it and stretching out, watching. It was familiar and almost – 

Almost – 

Comforting.

Like home.

The orange light painted a hard line of light over his figure, his shadow sharp on the wall behind him. He tipped the mostly-empty bottle to his lips, finishing it. He let it dangle between his fingers, running a weary hand over his hurting eyes.

The cold shoulder of a shadow overtook him, casting him into darkness. Blearily, he opened his eyes.

The detective stood firmly ahead of him, haloed in the red light.

“You do remember you were stabbed in the gut, right?” she scolded. “Miraculous healing or not, even you can’t think it’s a good idea to invite permanent liver damage right after that.”

He let her take the bottle from him, setting it on the ground.

It must have been something in his confused gaze that made her soften. She lifted him to his feet and directed his stumbling self inside and up the few stairs toward the bathroom. If she held on to his waist too tightly, it was only because she was afraid he would fall.

And if he leaned into her touch, hungry for her warmth, then it must have been because he was just cold. 

Lucifer shuffled up the stairs and she pushed him into the bathroom. He was reluctant to unwrap himself from her, trailing his hand down her arm as he stumbled inward. Barely a day of isolation, even self-induced, had memories of a world of emptiness and silence cutting through him like glass.

She planted her hands on the doorframe.

“Tomorrow is Taco Tuesday,” she told him, the meaning of the words playing catch-up in his brain. “6:30. Will you be there?”

He flashed what he hoped was a dazzling smile. 

“Sober.”

The smile faltered, like static on a television screen.

Her hands dragged back down the wood trim to her sides. “Please.”

He closed his mouth, nodding once. He gestured toward the shower behind him. “Now, if you’d like –”

She huffed and rolled her eyes, turning halfway out the door, a hand still on the frame.

She didn’t look at him. “Please,” she whispered. 

The ache in his throat stopped any words from coming. 

He stared at the space she left behind until his eyes unfocused on the wall beyond.

After, sat on the edge of the tub, holding a hand under the scalding water, watching it turn bright pink.

He waited until the pain receded.

It took much longer than he’d anticipated.

 

She hadn’t intended to go over.

Lucifer was an adult, even if he didn’t act like it. A grown man who had a serious brush with death. 

She felt guilty about it, but he didn’t need a babysitter.

Chloe caught him loitering outside her apartment complex, resting on a short stone retaining wall. She’d just been on her way out to grab a few things for tomorrow from the store, a couple reusable bags in hand. Michael smiled broadly upon seeing her, open and genuine and oddly off-putting, for which she had no explanation. She closed the gate behind her.

“I didn’t want to confuse your young daughter,” he explained, gesturing to himself. He hadn’t changed from the hospital, though his shirt was tucked into his jeans, outlining the strong inverse curve of his seated form. He struck her as someone who would be used to wearing a uniform. “It can be jarring for the unexpected. And she seems to have some semblance of a relationship with my brother, for which I have to say, I did not see coming.”

“Believe me, I don’t think he did, either,” she said, eyeing the exit but taking a seat.

Michael chuckled. Chloe tried to push down the feeling that somehow she was betraying Lucifer, just sitting here with his brother.

“Just stopping by, then?” she asked, discreetly moving the bags into her lap. 

He seemed to sober then, crossing his legs toward her and leaning closer. She leaned away slightly, unsure. Even though the differences were more markedly obvious now, especially up close, the fact that Lucifer had never said anything about this member of his family had her cautious. Especially when he was being so personable. 

Amenadiel had warned her once, after all, of Lucifer being an excellent conman. Perhaps it ran in the family.

“I don’t make social calls, no,” he began. “Only visit when duty calls.”

“So your brother is your duty, then,” she said flatly. 

He considered it. “Not really, and especially not of late. I’m not his caretaker.”

Chloe shook her head. “I’m a mom, but I have zero interest in being his, too, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

He saw her discomfort, and moved away. “I’m not,” he assured. “I just…” His voice trailed away, and Chloe took sympathy.

“Worry,” she finished. “I know Lucifer does a lot of questionable things. The man smiles for a living. But… I know that’s not all of it. He’s trying. And,” she added, then paused. Michael waited. She smiled politely, her gaze somewhere on the stone floor. “I trust him,” she decided. “I don’t think people give him enough credit.”

The conversation had lulled enough that she made to stand and leave, but Michael startled her when he spoke again. “Imagine being a prince. Heralded for all to hear. The Favorite Son. Imagine having the ability to make anything happen, just by wanting it.”

“Yeah,” she joked. “That sounds like Lucifer.”

They both cracked a smile, but his left sadness in its wake. “It wasn’t enough.”

Chloe shook her head, taking in a deep breath and standing. “I know you’re trying to be helpful, and I appreciate that, I do. But I’d rather hear this from him.”

Michael brushed off his jeans, which she pegged as a nervous tick. “I will say this,” he stated, standing and trying not to tower over Chloe, stepping aside. “My brother is a lot of things. Ignorant. Selfish. Reckless,” he thought, only just stopping himself from continuing. “But, he’s on a path, now, that I never thought he’d take. He seems… different. With you. Because of you,” he corrected. “You’re… special.”

“Why do people keep saying that?” she asked, risking a look into his eyes for answers. 

This was the stranger, she decided. Not Lucifer. 

Him she knew.

He didn’t answer.

She raised a hand, stopping him from answering. “Mike. Thank you. Truly. But I’ve got somewhere I really need to be.” She took a few steps before turning back around. “I hope you won’t be a stranger.”

“One day, perhaps you’ll understand that my brother cannot be saved,” he said. “And we will meet again.”

She watched him walk away, his stride longer, looser and more confident than Lucifer’s.

Maybe.

But she wasn’t going to hold her breath.

 

Dan knew exactly where Amenadiel was going to be on a Monday night, which had him both proud of his detective-ing and friend skills, and a little worried at the creepy/stalker vibe he was completely giving off.

He waited outside the restaurant, watching from the alley across the street. The red-suited valets kept eyeing him curiously, but they were used to people loitering. This was L.A. They were probably used to a lot of things.

Amenadiel walked out confidently, and Dan jogged over just as he handed over his valet ticket.

“Daniel!” he said happily. “To what do I –”

“Cut the crap,” Dan stated, earning a second look from the other valet. “Where the Hell is Marcus Pierce?”

“Not there, I assure you,” Amenadiel said, then gestured for him to wait. The car rounded the corner. Amenadiel tipped the man and they both got in, joining the crawl of city traffic. 

“There are a few things I think you, being the police, should know,” Amenadiel explained. “But his location is not one of them.”

“He tried to murder your brother.”

To his surprise, Amenadiel laughed. “He’s done more good than harm, I think, even if my brother can’t see it now.” He looked over as they stopped at a red light, bathing both their faces in the color. “As they say, God works in mysterious ways.”

Dan was stunned. “So you just, what? Don’t care?”

“About Marcus, no,” Amenadiel answered, driving once more. “I’m more concerned about who sent him.”

Dan no longer acknowledged the road, even the angry drivers who passed them, Amenadiel driving too slowly for their tastes. “Pierce was… an assassin?” he deadpanned, disbelieving.

“Not intentionally, no. But looking over the series of events, it became obvious to him what had happened: he had been manipulating into finding Lucifer. He had no qualm with my brother.” He glanced over, gauging the detective’s reaction. “It’s difficult to explain, but Marcus realized he had been set on a path to find him.”

“That’s insane.”

“Is it? What’s that saying? A butterfly flaps its wings…?”

Dan didn’t need to finish the phrase to understand its meaning. 

“My worry,” Amenadiel continued, “is that this someone isn’t going to stop, with Marcus having failed.”

“Did he say anything about who he thinks it could be?”

“He said a name.”

Amenadiel turned a corner, and that’s when Dan realized they had been going in a circle, the other man bringing him back to his car, tucked away on a residential side street. He double-parked beside it, the engine still running. 

“Who?” asked Dan, opening the door to step out.

“He said there was only one person he’d come across with the ability to manipulate events in such a way. Who killed someone very close to him.”

“Sounds like he wants revenge,” he said, slamming the door shut and leaning through the window.

“I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“But you trust him?”

Amenadiel didn’t need to consider it. “Believe me. He has no reason to lie.”

“And the name?”

“The Sinnerman,” he air-quoted. “I don’t know more than that.”

Dan nodded and moved around to the other side of the car, fishing out his keys. A thought struck him, and he tapped on Amenadiel’s window, who slid it down.

“At least tell me he’s been taken out of play,” he asked, the scene sending a shivering reminder of a time when he was the one making back-alley deals. 

Amenadiel smiled, glancing up. “My brother took him home -”

Dan leaned back to look at the sky, muttering “unbelievable” under his breath. He looked back down. “So he and Lucifer have that in common, too? Not just making googly eyes at my ex-wife?”

“- to see my Father,” he finished. “They were long overdue for a conversation. My Father… used to be a crueler man, once upon a time. Set all this into motion.”

Dan almost breathed a sigh of relief, and would have, if the solution didn’t sound like something straight out of a Godfather movie. “And you’re good with that?”

“Honestly, Dan, I think it’s the best outcome for everyone.”

 

The long grass, brittle and dry, cascaded across the gently rolling landscape until it disappeared over the Earth’s receding curve. The hard blue sky rang out overhead, cloudless, as silent as the world it encased. Spring had not yet awoken in this part of the world, and though he could be bathing in the Sun on a distant beach, he knew: no one would question why he was here. 

The stark, empty desolation of it all called to him, though he would be loathe to admit it.

He sat in the grass looking out, resting his chin on a knee. He rolled a stalk of new, green grass between his fingers, plucked from the hard ground without a second thought. The cracks from where he pushed too hard at it gave in easily, whatever bit of moisture inside making the pads of his fingers sticky. The soil beneath his soft, worn tunic was cold, seeping through the fabric with ease.

He didn’t mind. He was used to the cold.

He flicked away the broken stalk.

Earth was the pinnacle of his Father’s design, and he was at its peak. Its future was in his hands. 

Their future, those who would soon overrun the Earth like the grass.

He was who he had always been, and who he would always be. 

_Samael._

_The Destroyer._

He could almost taste it, their coming. It gave a metallic tinge to the air. 

Whatever animals had been nearby when he touched down had long since left, sensing danger. He knew that’s how it was supposed to be. He knew that was how it was always going to be. 

_The Poison of God._

He told himself he didn’t mind.

He had another title, one that had never made sense. His Father just shrugged, head bent over his worktable, citing that it was his mother’s idea.

_The Blind God._

The Earth beneath him trembled, with fear or anticipation, he didn’t know. But he waited.

He would wait for them. To see if they were worth all the fuss they brought up back home.

The calm hush of the breeze through the grass made it dance around him, a few stalks brushing against his outstretched leg. It pushed at his unfolded wings, draped behind him like a blanket of snow. 

There was no reason to hide – he was perfect. 

There was no one to hide from.

There was no one. 

 

And when she appeared, asking for what was beyond paradise, he would look out onto the world – and wonder the same for himself.

Because Eve _knew_.

She knew what he could not see for himself. What they both wanted.

 

Something _more_.

 

Lucifer awoke on Tuesday, alone, in a quiet apartment. 

It had not been a dream, but a long-dead memory resurfacing. 

The solitude was almost normal. He almost didn’t question it, rolling over onto his side, only to feel cold sheets beside him.

He slid his hand across the black silk, the white of his hand stark against it as he reached out. It reminded him of another time, of another place, when he was always reaching, always willing, always trying to please…

He leapt from the bed, hopping to disentangle himself from the sheet as it wrapped around his legs. He rushed down the stairs, sliding on the marble to the balcony.

The sound of humanity greeted him from below.

He looked down upon them, humans buzzing away their short lives with activity, fumbling their way to the grave. He breathed in their pollution, taking solace in the fact that that had never changed. The only change was his viewpoint.

He hadn’t looked down on them in a long, long time.

A gust of wind on his face had him unfurling his wings instinctively, shaking them out and catching the breeze, holding them taunt. The soft breath of air touched them like a lover, caressing as it flowed down. He breathed a sigh of relief, leaning on the railing and gazing straight down.

The thought continued to nag at him, even as life pulsed around him. His wings drooped before he tucked them out of sight.

Something in him had changed.

Something _out there_ had changed.

He wasn't sure what seemed more likely.

 

Linda decided – enough was enough. She and Reece had been separated for over two years when he died.

When he was… murdered.

The distinction kept bumbling around in her mind. Even though Reece had been complicit in his own downfall, no one deserved to die that like.

She shoved the guilt down with a scone and a sip of to-go coffee, nervously walking into her office building, trying to be polite enough to answer when peers asked if she were alright, and cold enough to make them decline to converse with her further.

All she wanted was to get back to normal. 

Whatever that meant.

She strolled confidently forward toward her waiting area, her highest heels making her sashay perhaps a little more than normal – but hey, a girl deserved to feel good about herself. She could look put together, even if she didn’t feel it on the inside.

A dark head of hair was waiting for her, cross-legged and relaxed in one of her chairs. She smiled at him, glancing over as she unlocked her office.

“Lucifer,” she said happily, opening the door and beckoning him inside. Okay, so maybe not “normal,” but she would take what she could get. “You’re here early.”

“I thought it seemed that way,” he answered, following her inside. “Considering the door was locked.”

She whirled around, handbag swirling to hit her on the other side and nearly sloshing out some of her coffee. “What on Earth –” 

“Oh,” he laughed, his smile open and completely disorienting to the therapist. “I’m not –”

“Me,” answered another, more familiar voice. Lucifer cautiously stepped into the room, looking accusingly at his brother. “Do you have only one outfit? Seriously? No jacket or anything?”

“Why?” he asked. “You’re the one who was always cold.”

“Ha, ha,” Lucifer said, snarky. “I wasn’t the one –”

“Okay, who –” said Linda, holding up both hands in an effort to get their attention. Which it did. Which was possibly worse. “What?”

The brothers looked at one another. “Yes,” Lucifer spoke, his eyebrows raising, “What, exactly, are you doing here? Aren’t you done? Cosmic crisis averted?”

“Lucifer,” she firmly stated, glancing between the two. “Did you clone yourself?”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Okay.” She let down her hands. “Okay. Good. So who are you?” she asked, her voice pitching. 

“Of course,” the other man said, stepping forward and offering a hand. “I’m –”

“Just leaving,” snapped Lucifer, tugging his brother by the back collar of his shirt and yanking him back toward the door.

Linda collected herself. “Lucifer!” 

He stilled, manhandling his resisting brother in the doorway. 

“I think it would be a good idea if he stayed.”

Michael smiled, pleased, showing remarkable similarity to the man she knew. Lucifer sighed, throwing up his hands in defeat. She took in a deep breath, setting down her stuff on the desk and stepping forward and gesturing to the couch. Lucifer took a seat, impatiently imploring his brother to do the same.

“Let’s start over,” she said, when all three were seated. “I’m Dr. Linda Martin, and you are?”

“Michael,” Lucifer said, just as his brother opened his mouth to speak. He ticked off the titles with a wave of his hand. “The Archangel, protector of humanity, yada yada. My younger brother.”

Michael finished shaking her hand, sinking back into the seat. “By a few seconds,” he said, winking.

“Well, it was a lifetime back then,” Lucifer corrected. “Several, but who’s counting.”

“You kid,” Michael told Lucifer, a confused expression on his face. He turned toward the doctor. “He’s not well.”

“Oh, for Father’s sake, she knows,” Lucifer balked.

“That you’re not well?” 

Lucifer shot him a look that could have dropped bodies. Linda looked between the two, trying to sate her shock. 

“Michael,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I am aware of Lucifer’s… status.”

“Status,” repeated Michael, looking between the two of them. Lucifer crossed his legs, leaning back and away from his brother, shaking his head.

Her brain was apparently malfunctioning this morning. “Yes,” she answered.

“That he is…?”

She looked to the Devil, who only lifted his eyebrows expectantly in response.

“The Devil,” she decided. “I’ve seen his face.”

Michael slowly raised his face to the Heavens in disbelief before turning it to snap at his brother. “You risk permanently damaging a living soul for your own–” he began, stuttering in anger. “You egoistic –”

It descended into chaos from there. Linda stayed in her seat, her mind trying to catch up with the fact that an Archangel – the Archangel – and the Devil himself were bickering on her couch.

She settled in, reminding herself that no other therapist – no other human being – had ever had the power, or privilege, of counseling the most dysfunctional family in the Universe.

 

She threw up her hands, calling for silence. Lucifer and Michael had devolved into arguing about some obscure detail of an event that no human had ever heard of, and she knew Lucifer well enough to know that his looks to her, the ones he thought she wouldn’t notice, meant that he really wanted to talk about something else.

“Michael,” she said, exasperated but trying to remain calm, an uneasy giggle bubbling at the thought of nearly telling off an archangel. “I think that’s probably going to be enough for now, if you don’t mind.”

He left the argument with ease, leaving Lucifer staring at his profile. He stood, brushing off his jeans and taking her hand once more, covering hers with both of his and a smile.

You’re doing beautifully, he told her, and she stared. He hadn’t spoken a word, but his voice resounded in her head. 

She definitely saw the resemblance to their Father, there.

Oh, God. God! Everyone’s Father. Like, THE Father. The kind that was written in all caps.

She let out a nervous little laugh, which had Lucifer rolling eyes so hard they might have actually done somersaults inside his skull.

“Bye!” Lucifer called out. Michael paid the attitude no attention.

He wavered in the doorway.

“Sam,” he asked. Lucifer stared hard at Linda, not acknowledging the name. Michael took in a breath. “Lucifer.”

Begrudgingly, the Devil looked to his brother.

Michael seemed to be choosing his words. Linda watched with interest as Lucifer’s shoulder’s slumped, the tension exhausted from his body.

“If there is any constant in the Universe, it’s that you are always going to do what you want to do.”

Lucifer ignored the remark, remaining placid. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t heard it an infinite amount of times before.

“But,” Michael continued, “I didn’t avert any ‘cosmic crisis.’” 

The whisper of a smile crossed his lips before it was replaced by a stern, almost disappointed look. 

“You did.”

He nodded once, in goodbye, and closed the door behind him.

Lucifer stared at the closed door. 

Linda knew it would have probably taken her the rest of eternity to decode the expression on Lucifer’s face.

It probably had taken just as long to create it.

“Honestly, the nerve,” he exhaled, looking back to her and smacking his hands on his thighs. “Thinks he can just waltz into my life after a couple millennia and make everybody swoon over his charms,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. He leaned forward. “I’ll have you know he was still calling you monkeys, right up until –”

Curiously, he stopped, something over her shoulder catching his attention. 

“Until what?” she prompted.

“Has that always been there?” he asked, rising to his feet. 

She turned in the seat, looking at the wall and seeing nothing out of the ordinary. 

Ah. An avoidance tactic. Like, literally the oldest in the book.

And she almost fell for it. Naturally.

“Until what, Lucifer?”

He stared, then rested back down, shaking off whatever he had seen. “Until I –” he faltered once again. “Until Eve decided paradise wasn’t enough, and finally he saw your true capacity.”

She sat back, taking it in. “For evil?” she asked.

“God no, he’s never been that bright. For choice.”

“I thought that was your interest,” she drew out, confused. “That when Eve took the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge, it was at your prompting.”

“Yes,” he said emphatically. “Though that story is more a metaphor. And I certainly didn’t give her anything she didn’t already want. But Michael had no interest in you humans until I did so. Free will wasn’t interesting until you lot decided to use it. Only then did you show any promise.”

“Promise?”

He rested his elbows on his knees, sliding his palms together absently. “For me, potential for wickedness. But for Michael, potential for good.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. “The other side of the coin,” he said softly.

“Why wickedness?” she asked, though she suspected she already knew the answer.

“Why, doctor,” he said, leaning back comfortably. “For punishing wickedness.”

She nodded, thinking. “And that’s something you were always interested in, before you became the Devil?”

His gaze drifted toward the window, and she listened, trying to figure out what was drawing his attention. Yielding streams of traffic sounds flowed along the glass, the morning sunlight filtering through the blinds.

“We all have things we were made for,” he finally said.

“And choice? Free will? How does that fit in?”

That brought his attention back to her. 

For a long moment, it looked as though he was trying to decide if he wanted to tell her what was on his mind.

“I can’t imagine that it matters here very much,” he said, unblinkingly.

His words struck her in the gut with enough force to drop open her mouth.

"I'm not sure I understand," she said.

“Doctor, I don’t want to alarm you, but,” he began, returning to stare at the light drifting into the room, dust catching and turning in the streams. 

It all looked so... real.

Suddenly, he stood, adjusting a cufflink. “Our time is up. Same time next week?” he asked, not bothering for confirmation.

“Lucifer!” she called out, stopping him in the doorway. He turned, dropping his hands back to his sides. “Here, as in metaphorically, or on Earth?”

He didn’t even take time to consider it. “Why, neither, Linda.” He shook his head and smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Here, as in Hell.”

 

Lucifer took the elevator all the way down to the parking garage, unwilling to stop off at Lux. He had made a promise – well, not in so many words, per se, but he still felt he owed it to the detective to show up without having had a drop of alcohol on his lips.

He patted the chest of his suit jacket, double checking the freshly-filled flask was still there.

She had said nothing about after, after all.

The elevator doors slid open and he strode forward confidently, half-expecting to walk out into blue-tinged light and ash. It had been a few years since the sight of something different had caught him off guard like that. 

Maybe it was all part of the plan. Make him feel comfortable. Make him feel like he was free.

He fished out his keys with a downturn to his mouth, spying a familiar figure leaning against his Corvette, the delicious curves of its body against her own. 

Though hers were strikingly displeased.

“Mazikeen. Tell me you haven’t scratched it.”

“Hello, nice to see you too, Maze,” she ridiculed, “Oh, by the way, thanks for spending fruitless weeks searching for the ‘Sinnerman’ instead of living your life. I missed Chloe’s birthday,” she scolded, pushing herself off, “and I was this close to seeing Decker loosen up. For once. All her rules make me itch.”

“Well, it’s not for lack of trying, on my part. Seems I had to leave for our little human to have a good time.”

He shoved past her and opened the car door. She slammed it back shut, the sound reverberating off the cold concrete around them. 

“You’re not going to ask me what I found?”

“You just said it was fruitless.”

“Yeah, but,” she hesitated, “that doesn’t mean I didn’t find a tree.”

He blinked, then gestured impatiently. “Well, spit it out, then.”

Instead, Maze took a long look into the growing shadows around them. Satisfied, she stepped closer, lowering her voice. “People talk about the Sinnerman like he’s some sort of god. But he’s not. He might be the head of something here, something nameless,” she shook her head, watching the shadows once more, “but he’s just as much a pawn as the rest of them.”

Lucifer surprised her by sighing and opening the car door, pushing her away. 

“What? That’s not good enough for you? Do you have any idea how many kneecaps I had to shatter for that kind of information? Not to mention finding exactly who he’s –”

“And I’m sure you have a lovely time doing it,” he offered, taking a seat. “But I was hoping you would tell me something I don’t already know. We’re all pawns, Maze. Every one of us.”

He turned the ignition, leaving her open mouthed and heated enough that he could see her shaking, on the verge of boiling.

“He’s not just some low-level lackey. He takes direct orders from –”

He struck his hands on the steering wheel, unable to hold his rising frustration in any longer. “I don’t give a damn who the Sinnerman is, Mazikeen, or what he’s done. It’s over. Let him be a pawn. Let him and whoever else and, most importantly, me, just… be.”

With that, the engine roared as he shot backward, the tires squealing as he tore through the garage.

“– Lilith,” she finished. “’ _Sinner man_ ,’” she mocked, slipping back into the shadows. “Like men have a monopoly on wickedness.”

 

The dull light of a California winter slanted into the kitchen, Chloe long having had to turn on the lights to brighten up the place. She had expected Maze to join them, but her roommate had yet to show. Oblivious, Trixie happily mashed the guacamole, sitting at the breakfast counter.

She turned around and nearly jumped out of her skin, startled to see Lucifer hanging in the foyer. He hadn’t made a sound coming in. 

At her mother’s gasp, Trixie turned and spotted the Devil, whom she promptly encased in a bone-crushing hug. Delighted, the girl looked up at him with a toothy grin on her face, maintaining her vice-like grip.

“Make a noise, will ya?” Chloe snorted, turning back to the tortillas, warming on the stove.

“Is the bell still an option?” he asked, attempting to pry the child off. She was having none of it. He settled for a quick pat on the head, which seemed to do the trick. She dragged him to the counter with her, resuming her seat and her smashing.

He leaned down and lowered his voice. “Not too much, child. You still want the chunks.”

Trixie nodded once, then licked the fork clean, stiffly holding an arm back toward her mom to take it away.

Chloe took it, then swiped her own finger around the rim of the bowl before popping it in her mouth to taste.

She may or may not have meant to catch Lucifer’s eye while doing so.

Yep. This was definitely Hell, because only the Devil could torture himself like this.

Chloe quickly removed her finger, telling Trixie the guac was just right – which had the child beaming – and narrowed her eyes at Lucifer, who was not reacting in the way she was expecting.

He always threw her off kilter, but lately – 

Lately, she just didn’t know, anymore.

She smiled innocently and turned away, gathering the rest of the food together and delegating out roles to set the table.

 

The Sun set. Plates were cleared away and glasses replaced. The soft rush of running water and clink of dinnerware in the sink drifted through the space as easily as the last few quips of a conversation on an unimportant topic. A glass of wine and one of scotch were drained while standing in the kitchen while a child watched a television program in the other room before being asked to go brush her teeth, which she reluctantly obeyed. 

Chloe tucked in her daughter, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking over her bookshelf. 

Trixie pulled a book out from under the covers. “I want to read it myself, tonight, if that’s okay.”

Chloe tucked a stray stand of hair behind her daughter’s ear, willing away tears with a smile. “Of course, monkey.” She leaned down, rubbing their noses together in an Eskimo kiss before planting a real one on her forehead. “I love you. More than anything.”

“I love you too, mommy,” Trixie said, opening her book and adjusting it on her chest.

Chloe stood with a reminder to shut off the reading lamp when she was done, and took a long glance at her child from the threshold before pulling the door closed, leaving it open just an inch.

Lucifer turned, surprised, from the couch as she shut the door. “Must have been a short read, then?” 

Chloe tried to smile, taking the last couple steps to her partner and shaking her head. He tilted his, trying to understand her reaction as she sat beside him. 

Unsure, he refilled her glass on the coffee table, but did not hand it to her.

“It goes by so fast,” she explained, unable to stop the moisture from coming to her eyes. She looked over his shoulder toward the door. “I can still remember, clear as day, what it felt like to walk through the door with her for the first time.” She lifted her hands to her chest, as though feeling a phantom limb. “She was so small. She was so completely helpless. Though Dan pretty much was too, at the time,” she joked.

“And still,” Lucifer added, trying to tug a smile from her.

She exhaled, pulling herself back together. “Sorry,” she apologized, wiping at her eyes. “Not very sexy.”

“I don’t give a damn about sexy.”

Shocked, she returned her eyes to his. They were as dark and fathomless as the bottom of the ocean. “Okay,” she said, teasingly, “Who are you and what have you done with Lucifer Morningstar?”

“I don’t know,” he said, honestly. 

She reached and gently laid a hand on his. “Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer, but looked beyond her around the room, his gaze landing on her child’s bedroom door. She trailed her fingers down to cup around his own, a hair’s breadth away from not touching. 

“Talk to me,” she prompted.

He decided that if this was Hell, then it wouldn’t matter anyway. Perhaps, if he told her – if he showed her – the cycle would reset, and he would begin again, to relive his torture for all eternity. He wondered when it all started. It must have been when he met the detective.

Perhaps he had died in the hail of bullets that killed Delilah.

But it was much _more_ likely that he had never left Hell at all. So it could have begun at any time. Eons ago, even.

He knew exactly why this was his Hell, at least. To want and not have, to be known and yet not known, to see and not touch – 

Except she was touching him. He looked down at their hands, and she wrapped herself more tightly around him.

“I can’t tell what’s real, anymore,” he admitted. He heard her swallow, but otherwise she remained silent. “When I was… gone. I was so sure I was in Hell. But it wasn’t as I remembered. I tried to so hard to leave in all the ways I knew how, in the ways I had before.”

“Before?” she repeated, surprised that her mind was not whirling with possibilities. No, she was here, exactly in the moment with him, listening. 

And trying to understand.

He nodded, but could not bring himself to look at her.

“You’re brother,” she began, steadying herself. “He said a name.”

He huffed out a small laugh, turning her hand over and running a thumb over hers. “Of course he did. I suppose you want to know more about it.”

He looked up at her reluctance. 

“No,” she assured. “I know who you are.”

His lips parted as his mouth fell open.

She rolled her eyes upward, breaking into a mischievous grin. “Rogue L.A.P.D. consultant, owner of the hottest nightclub in town with the best Moscow Mules, unstoppable flirt, always ready with an inappropriate comment, breaking-and-entering champion, with an ego the size of Mars and… the best partner I’ve ever had.” Her smile faded into something softer. “I have seen so much that doesn’t make any sense. You being shot. Being dead and coming back, covered in blood and I still don’t believe your brother when he says blood packs because you can barely hide a wire under that shirt. You’re family looks like a delegation put together by the planet to meet an alien ambassador and I haven’t yet decided if you were part of some super mob crime family or a cult, and frankly, Lucifer. I don’t care. You go off and marry a stripper –”

“Exotic dancer,” he corrected, flabbergasted at her words.

“– and miss out on my birthday and yeah, that hurt, but God, I don’t even care. Not really. Because, yeah, I’d like to know. But even for all your weirdness, I do know. I know you have my back.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “So if this doesn’t feel real to you,” she took in a deep breath, her thoughts threatening to derail her, “It feels pretty damn real to me.”

The child shut of her light, the click catching their attention. Both looked toward the door and the darkened room beyond.

“Sam,” he said, suddenly. “My name was Samael.”

He felt her eyes on him, but his was stuck on the door, waiting for the inevitable reset.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“There was someone, once,” he remembered, lost in his memories. “She was, quite literally, the first woman – the first person – who saw something in me, and I had never,” he shook his head slightly, trying to dislodge the memory. “I had never imagined people could be like that. Almost like you’ve been gifted some kind of premonition, that you can see the future. She saw something in me that I knew, but didn’t know. That I wanted –” he swallowed. “That I was meant for more. I don’t know why the story is always told as such, but. It was not _I_ who tempted _her_.” 

He looked to Chloe for answers, for understanding, for anything. 

“It destroyed us both.”

Chloe pulled her hand from his and he stared at the suddenly vacant space, his skin growing cold.

That was it, then. He knew it was bound to happen. His worst fears, his true torment fully realized. 

“I’m so tired of being alone,” he whispered, if only to himself, if only to hear himself speak one last time before the world faded away and he was returned, again, to the crushing silence –

Chloe wrapped her arms warmly around his neck, pulling him in. 

He breathed in the scent of her, of the day and dinner and spritz of perfume from the morning. After a moment, he wrapped his arms around her, easily enveloping her. 

He braced for more, but nothing came. He felt the rise and fall of her steady breath, her fingers brushing just above the collar of his shirt. 

“This is real,” she whispered, willing the words forward from the depths of her soul. She pulled away enough to touch her forehead against his, bringing her hands to either side of his face, running her thumbs over the stubble of his jawline. “Tell me this is real.”

With the same effort it took to make the stars, he pulled back. He stared at the crack in the child’s door, and the darkness beyond.

It had been the way out, before. It could be, again.

“You know I don’t lie,” he reminded her, his hands sliding, dejected, to her waist. 

“I remember,” she whispered.

Finally, he brought himself back to her. In a smooth motion, he stood. Her hands trailed down his arms to his hands. 

She knew he had to let him go.

Reluctantly, he took himself to the child’s door. The sign was different, now. It was just as glittery, but it wasn’t pink – it was purple.

He pushed open the door.

The distant kitchen light illuminated the child’s sleeping figure on the bed.

He could step inside.

The room had been empty, before.

The world had been empty, before.

He must have been standing there for longer than he’d thought, because Chloe had brought herself to the space beside him, leaning on the doorframe and gazing upon her child.

She took her hand in his, and he followed the sight up to her eyes. He released it, lifting his hand to caress her face, her eyes as blue and forgiving as water.

The world _would_ be empty, without them.

To want and not have.

Was it worse, he wondered, to _almost_ have something?

Or to be shown _exactly_ what could make you happy, and be too afraid to go after it?

He stood on the edge of the precipice, looking down.

He decided.

“I want to tell you everything.”

She smiled, as radiant as Heaven.

If this was Hell, he’d gladly Fall.

It had just never been from quite so high, before.

**Author's Note:**

> 12/08/17 I think, after probably not enough consideration, that I will continue this story. There are some questions that need answers... the reveal, the story of Eve, how the Sinnerman manipulated Marcus into coming to L.A. and right into the path of the Devil... among others.  
> No promises on when it'll be ready to post, so for now I will leave it marked as complete, and add the second part when it's ready.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I hope you reading the story as much as I enjoyed writing it. It was a real pleasure. 
> 
> <3
> 
> -theleafpile
> 
> 03/03/18 Oh BOY was I zealous. Yeah. There isn't gonna be a continuation of this one. Love you all. Thanks for reading!!


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